


dregs

by bugsuit



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugsuit/pseuds/bugsuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath is not always quick and simple. Things can take time, and there's often a lot of learning still to be done and changes still to be made. This is about how the dust settles, and how the loose ends tie themselves. </p><p>[Kind of fix-it fic, kind of post-plot exploration. Spoilers for the whole series and Predacons Rising. More tags will be added as the fic progresses, because I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of writer.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a lot to think about

_We all have plenty to think about, don’t we?_

His own last words to the Autobots rang in his audials as the talons at his chest dug deep, jagged lines into the metal. The pain and pressure was increasing, slowly, and then all at once he felt himself swept to one side – the pressure was gone, but it was replaced with the familiar feeling of flight until his body hit the wall and crashed down.

A pair of yellow optics regarded him coldly from in front of the throne as the other two Predacons raced towards him, eager to feel their share of carnage. He’d heard humans use this expression before: Predaking had thrown him to the dogs. And he was going to die here – inches from the throne he’d almost claimed for himself. Wasn’t that just typical?

No, this was no time to sink back into the old habit of waiting for it to be over. This was not Megatron – not anyone who would stop, who could be reasoned with, begged to, bowed to. It was a beast and its packmates, and they were going to tear him to shreds ceaselessly until there was nothing left. His wits wouldn’t save him, and shutting down would mean the end. The _real_ end.

Starscream lifted an arm, attempting to push himself upright, but claws pinned him immediately, broke a digit under the weight, and elicited a cry he didn’t bother to hold back.

“Let me go! Let me _go,_ you must have something better to do – someone else to rip apart – surely you’re-!” He cut off, against his will, as the claws moved from his arm to his face and stomped him harshly into the floor. Starscream scrabbled at the Predacon’s leg, trying to move its weight off his neck, but its beaked face ducked down in front of his and the sneer he saw there made him still.

The claws dug into his neck cables, slightly. Starscream didn’t move. Panic was starting to grip him, the realisation setting in that there would be no way out of this. Murdered in cold blood, not as an outlet for anger, but with a point. The goal was not for his attacker to lash out. It was to exact revenge. And that goal would be completed with his death.

A beast who could make calculated decisions was still a beast.

“Break him,” came the command Starscream had been dreading.

And the breaking began, in slashes and tears and bites and the sharpness of a beak puncturing his armour like a jackhammer and in _agony,_ as the two Predacons flipped him, held him down, and tore his wings from his back. There would be no fleeing. A claw caught his face and mangled his right optic. Another set dug into his chest armour again and this time ripped it off with the creak of stressed metal and then the empty snap as it gave.

Starscream tasted energon, and didn’t bother spitting it out.

And then – as razor sharp Predacon claws dug into his internals, as he screamed like his namesake for anything that resembled _mercy,_ it came.

“Stop.”

The agony didn’t subside, but the fresh wounds stopped appearing. Hesitation rippled through the air as the two Predacons turned their heads to look back at their king, and Starscream felt his unmangled servo twitch as the pressure of one of the beasts lessened on his shoulder.

There was a faint, screechy whine.

“The debt is paid. Starscream was tasked with breaking me,” Predaking explained, and Starscream heard the scissorlike sound of a hand gesture being made but could not raise himself up to see it; “and we broke him.”

The pressure eased off the jet’s torso and there was a clatter and whir of transformation somewhere above him. “But – your highness–“ Skylynx stuttered, clearly disappointed; “–his destruction-?”

“Would be pleasing,” Predaking admitted easily. Starscream flinched as Darksteel’s talons tightened again on his shoulder – then made a strained noise as it let go and happily ripped off the armour there instead. Predaking made an angered sound, a growl that was somewhere deep in the uncanny valley between _beast_ and _thinking individual_ , and it made Starscream feel sicker but it also made the Predacon cease again. “Pleasing, but not _correct.”_

Starscream felt his spark leap into his mouth, metaphorically speaking (it would drown there, with all the internal energon leakage) and the sharp edge of renewed fear made him cough. Blue specks spattered the chest of the Predacon still pinning him (as if it _had_ to, Starscream could barely move if he wanted to), and its head tilted to examine the mess and then snarled at him.

What did that mean? On _any_ level, what did that _mean?_ He’d accepted it, finally, that this was where and when he was to die, but now this was presented to him as though it meant something else. His processor was failing to do its job and _process._ Probably the energon loss, he lamented to himself.

Judging by their silence and the confused glances they exchanged, however, the lesser Predacons were just as confused as he was.

Predaking moved forwards, his footsteps clanking ominously on Darkmount’s floor, and came to a halt looming over Starscream even as his two lackeys shrank away to give him room.

“I have been asked before whether I am proud to consider myself sentient.”

If he expected a response, Starscream noted bitterly, he was a fool to expect him capable of giving one. The warm drip of energon from his injuries was making a fine pool on the floor beneath him. Let that speak for itself.

“My answer is yes,” he continued after a moment, his yellow optics never leaving Starscream’s face. They didn’t hold the disgust of someone who was thinking about the injuries he was sporting – just the cold lecturing glare that went with an explanation Predaking expected him to take to spark. Starscream would have shuddered with disgust, if he had the energy to do so. “But I have learned that sentience is a process, not something granted once and kept.”

“…Your highness?”

“If we are to truly call ourselves civilised, Skylynx, the worm must be left alive.” He turned away, his interest in the situation already lost now that he had made his point clear. “Our only example of the way civilised beings act is the Autobots. And so as much as it irks me: for now, and until we can truly say we know better… we follow _theirs_.”

There was a hissing, animalistic noise from Darksteel – and then the beast stepped away, leaving Starscream to make a wet wheezing noise and cough again, feeling something shift in his chest. Probably more energon if he was honest with himself, which would be a rare thing. He found it difficult to care any more. Was Predaking aware of the damage his minions had done? _Noble_ speech or no, Starscream was going to die, and it would be by their talons, in the end. Predaking’s self-proclaimed mercy just meant it would happen a little _slower._

“Beast,” he managed to choke out, because in all his solar cycles his processor had never known when to _quit_ and it was hardly going to learn now. The receding sound of three sets of claws on the floor halted, and he couldn’t even bring himself to curse his old habits.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

“As you can see, Predacons,” the dragon king declared loudly, “civility is _learned._ ”

The sound of transformation and the roar of Predacons taking to the sky had never sounded so loud in his audials. And yet, as the wingbeats faded into the distance, the silence they left behind was even more deafening.

Old habits had brought him this far. Why try to fix what was broken beyond repair?

The encoded message he sent through was no less clipped and demanding than it ever had been. Until he got a response (or until the inevitable happened, he supposed), Starscream was _oh_ so happy to just lie there and _bleed._

 

***

 

Wingtip to wingtip with the others – he supposed the correct terminology was _wingmen,_ wasn’t it? – Predaking tried his best not to reconsider. What was done was done. His decisions had to be final, or else what was the point? And how would he learn?

Besides, he had other concerns. If he was to lead, even the meagre two that squabbled when he wasn’t looking, Predaking understood that he had duties. The first, to find somewhere to call _home._ He’d thought the whole planet would do, for a while, but with only three Predacons and the others intent on reviving Cybertron, maybe he was setting his scopes too wide. That was irresponsible. And a king must make responsible decisions. He had learned from Megatron, and decided that that particular leader had done quite a few things wrong.

Still, that was the freedom of choosing neither side. Forming an entity all his own meant that he could make his own decisions – and cherrypick the ideals he liked from everyone else. Good and bad choices were his to observe from a distance, and emulate or dismiss as he saw fit.

So far, his leadership had been earned with force. It was what Predacons understood best. But – and this was the important part – Predacons were evolving. Changing with the times, to put it simply. Which meant if he was to _keep_ his leadership, in a way that he judged to be more civilised, Predaking would have to change things up. Start winning over his companions with words, not might… at least for the most part.

Still. The night was not yet over. And, as he maintained, a dawn was a new beginning. Perhaps he could leave it just a little longer before starting fresh. There were a few things Predacon that he wanted to indulge in, at least once.

Dipping a wing, Predaking circled down and led the others to a high spire, open to the winds and (presently) unoccupied. Cybertron would welcome others, soon, but for now at least they had their pick of roosts and vantage points. He landed neatly, metal claws clinking against the floor, and turned to scan the horizon as Skylynx and Darksteel landed behind him with a metallic clatter.

From here he could see the Sea of Rust, laid out like a scar just beyond the building limits. He pushed out the territorial thoughts, not wanting to think about the future right now. There would be enough planning and heavy decisionmaking later. Just for tonight, Predaking decided, they would be neither beasts nor civilians: just three minds in company. The simplicity would be a well-earned break from confusion and concerns.

He stepped towards the edge, wings folding up tight against his body, and took a seat. His tail curled around and the spiked, weapon-laden tip hung over the edge of their temporary refuge. Behind him, following by his example, Darksteel and Skylynx settled down a little, the faint sounds of preening that started up oddly comforting to him. When the morning came (and it would, now that the planet’s greatest threat had been eliminated), he would not be watching it alone.

Silently, and with a calmness about him he had not felt since his awakening, Predaking lifted his head and turned his gaze to the stars.

 

***

 

Calling the place a ‘burial ground’ was not logical. The bones had never been buried, not actively; Cybertron had covered them in vorns of advancement and expansion and the shifting of metallic terrain had shaken them to the surface, but they had not been _buried._ And now the place did not hold any of them, any more.

His balance ‘shot’, as some medics tended to say over the top of the operating slabs, Shockwave let himself drop inelegantly onto his aft. One stabilising servo slid a little way down the incline that dipped into the empty Predacon gravesite, and he spared a thought for this lack of symmetry before deciding he didn’t have the capacity or reason to care about aesthetics right now. There was no army and no commanding officer to look active in front of. He continued sitting awkwardly on the edge of the hill.

Logically, he knew, it would be better to simply keep moving. There were few options, otherwise; either wait here with the slim chance of being found (and not terminated) by the Autobots, or for the Predacons to hunt him down and confront him over their creation. He had no way of predicting the outcome of either scenario; and with his ability to transform severely hindered by his injuries, a slow trudge towards one of his hidden laboratories where he could fix himself to a working capacity had been his mission all night.

And yet he had stopped. Shockwave knew he still had more than enough energy in him to get to a lab, but something had made him stop, made him stare out at the Predacon gravesite from behind the heavy crack in his optic; and something made him stay, even now, and think over events as though he had the time or the energy to spare.

He supposed he did, after all. Logically, if the planet was still intact and the fighting had ceased, he had all the time he needed. Because Unicron had lost his battle. Because someone (and he would admit this easily where others may not _:_ he didn’t know exactly _who_ ) had won.

Shockwave was not the type to care about teams. He worked better alone, and with or without orders he was efficient and tactful. It also seemed as though teams did not currently hold any bearing. He had worked for Megatron, for the Decepticons, but Shockwave understood a need for unity when he saw it. Thus he’d encouraged two of the competing powers to unite. _Would it not be more logical to employ your might elsewhere at this time?_

There was at least one emotion Shockwave was entirely familiar with, and did not bother to isolate and purge from his systems. A scientist was entitled to take pride in his work. And, on occasion, he did.

Whether or not he could logically refer to the Predacons as _his_ any more remained to be seen. Their sentience had been proven, and they did not classify as pets or slaves any more either. But they were impressive, and he knew they existed by his servo. That had been enough to sow a little pride in him, even so early; Megatron’s praise of the project had been welcome, but unlike Starscream he did not thrive on his master’s praise alone. Shockwave had long ago found it _logical_ to accept his own prideful sentiment on his work over anyone else’s, not that sentiment usually had any place among his thoughts.

The final proof that he had reason to be proud had, perhaps not _entirely_ illogically, sprung from watching the Predacons fight amongst themselves.

Infighting had destroyed the Decepticons’ cause time and time again, but this had been infighting with a purpose. The first Predacon clone – Shockwave reminded himself to use his name, now – _Predaking_ had fought for his right to rule. And he had won it.

Somehow, watching the order establish itself had brought Shockwave another dose of pride. His creations had grown, and found their own sense of community. Sentience had come to the other two, the same as it had to Predaking. The natural order established itself quite easily even with clones introduced to the world long after the original race had perished. Interesting, scientifically speaking.

…Though Shockwave also wondered if there was a kind of poetry in that.

It was illogical, and an expense of energy on the processing power for a train of thought that surely had no bearing on his experiments of his learning. And yet here he was, staring out at the vast expanse of nothing that used to hold the bones of prehistoric Cybertronians, with broken parts and in obvious need of recharge, wasting time and energy on sentimentality.

As dawn broke over the horizon, however, Shockwave for once dismissed the programming reminding him to be logical. Watching the Cybertronian sunrise, for now, took precedence.


	2. taking steps

“C’mon!”

The clatter of Smokescreen’s hasty rush for higher ground was followed almost immediately by Wheeljack and Bulkhead, and then a moment later by Bumblebee. The resulting efforts in climbing up onto the slanted deck of the downed Nemesis were drowned out only by the laughter and shouting that accompanied them. For once, though they didn’t follow, neither Ratchet nor Arcee had any complaints about the noise. Today was a day for celebration, and this was something _momentous._

Arcee had promised herself she’d see this through, _without_ any wavering voice or trembling servos. One far steadier than her own settled on her shoulder, and she vented deeply.

“Didn’t think I’d get to see it,” Arcee admitted, a little too easily.

“You’re telling _me,_ ” came the sarcastic yet still cheerful response. She could hear the smile in Ratchet’s voice even without looking.

“You’re not that old.”

“Old enough,” he said quietly.

She supposed she couldn’t argue with that.

The sparks still pouring from the Well were lighting up the ground with splashes of colour as they changed direction and flitted around the gathering of Autobots, and Arcee didn’t bother trying to focus on any one of them. The blue and red flicker that had hovered over them for a moment was long gone, lost in the fireworks display that was the rekindling of their home planet, and after searching for a moment or two Arcee had quickly given up trying to make it out through the bursts of other colours.

Optimus, or whatever remained of him in his purest form, had already made his message clear. They would be watched over.

“Do you think…” Ah. There was that little wobble she’d been trying to keep out of her voice. Arcee vented once more, and retried. “Do you think we’ll see him again?”

Ratchet’s servo squeezed her shoulder gently. She wondered if this would be the last time he’d be this openly affectionate, or just the first of many. “Not as he was.” The medic was truthful, and sometimes the truth wasn’t easy to hear; but Ratchet had a way of softening things, when he felt it was important. He’d been getting better at it since they’d met the humans, which was one of the many things Arcee silently thanked them for. “But it’s not the last the world will see of his spark. I think that has been proven already.”

Arcee couldn’t fight the smile that crept onto her face, nor the emotion that fuelled it. She let her posture relax a little.

“Well, then,” Ratchet said suddenly, the same way he concluded any regular medical examination or technological test. “I’d better get around to fixing up the Nemesis. We’ll be more efficient with a functioning base of operations, though… I’d like to think it’s temporary.” There was a very quiet shuffle of metal somewhere to Arcee’s right. “Knock Out, keep an eye on my patient while I check the engines.” The shuffling stopped.

_“Aww.”_

“Don’t you _aww_ me, Mr. Team Player, you said you wanted to change sides, it’s about time you made yourself useful. Arcee, mind he doesn’t get himself into any trouble.”

The smile turned into a grin, and Arcee hurriedly stuck a servo in front of her mouth as a chuckle burst forth. Knock Out grumbled irritably, stalking past her to go and stand by Ultra Magnus. She caught the word _babysitting_ and _hysterical femme_ and instead of making her want to swipe his legs from under him it just made her laugh _more._ Arcee gave up on stifling it.

It took a moment to realise through her laughter that some of the sparks had broken away from the main torrent and were circling the air around her, with quick little whizzes of motion. Still laughing, a bit more lightly now, the femme held out her servo, and instantly a couple of them flew down to investigate, chasing each other in circles around her palm and through her digits when she spread them, and Arcee realised she had never felt more alive.

 

***

 

Knock Out had a feeling he was going to grow to loathe the piercing _ehp-ehp-ehp_ of the older medic’s interruptions.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He recovered from the instinctive flinch and turned around, attempting to lean backwards in a casual manner against the recon panel and forgetting the ship was still sitting on a slant, slipping to one side and having to slam one servo down on the edge of the panel to stay upright.

“Why, I’m… making myself useful!” he declared, plastering a confident smile on his faceplate. He gestured over his shoulder with the buffer he’d just retrieved from its hiding-place, and Ratchet’s optics focused on the screen behind him for a moment before flicking back with a disbelieving glare. “Oh, don’t give me that look. True Blue out there is just fine. The femme is keeping him company. I get the feeling we’d _both_ rather I didn’t have to stand around pretending to supervise. Besides, we’re getting a distress call,” he added quickly, seeing Ratchet was still unimpressed.

“First things first, Knock Out, if you’re going to be a part of this team from now on you’re going to have to learn names,” Ratchet replied scoldingly – then froze, and his optics locked on the screen again. “Wait – what?”

The younger medic perked up, glad to finally have his attention, and shuffled awkwardly to one side while still clinging to the console. They’d really have to get the Nemesis the right side up soon. The diagonal floor was a downright hazard to his paint job. Not that it was in great shape at the moment, regardless.

“Since last night, actually. And you’ll never _guess_ who it is,” he purred smugly, tilting his head to a jaunty angle as Ratchet attempted to squint at the screen from across the room. He was in no mood to be clambering nimbly across the deck when the angle had turned it into an athletic manoeuvre.

 _“Starscream.”_ His voice was laden with mistrust.

Knock Out rolled his eyes. “No, it’s – wait, how did you know?”

“High frequency signal, with an embedded message,” he muttered irritably. “We’ve had them before. What does it say?”

Knock Out’s optics widened and he managed to turn to face the screen without slipping over. “He contacted you before? …Of course. He struck out on his own. I wondered how he’d lasted so long.” He tapped the buffer against his chin thoughtfully, a frown making itself comfortable on his faceplate, before realising Ratchet was still waiting for a response. “Uh – it says ‘bring medical kit’.”

Ratchet ignored him. “That’s all? There’s nothing else?” When Knock Out gave a soft hum in the affirmative, the older medic responded with a lower, suspicious-sounding one. “That’s odd.”

“Well, it seems simple enough. He got himself damaged and now he wants to play on our good graces.” A beat. “Ahem. _Your_ good graces.”

“That’s not it,” the older medic responded, only vaguely paying attention. “Starscream has enlisted my help before. But he usually tries to barter.”

“You mean _blackmail,”_ Knock Out said, smirking. “Ha – I can’t imagine him ever conducting a fair trade. Besides, as if he’d ever have anything to-“

“Fetch some supplies from storage,” Ratchet interrupted curtly. “As much as you can carry. I have a feeling I know why the message was so short.”

Knock Out glanced at him, debating whether it was worth moaning about playing fetch all over again, but… Ratchet had thanked him before. Distraction or not, Knock Out felt a strange eagerness to get going. “Road trip?” He lit up excitably.

“ _Business_ trip,” Ratchet replied.

Knock Out grinned and let go of the panel, turning sideways to edge carefully along the floor. _“Road trip!”_ he sing-songed on his way past, as if Ratchet had simply agreed with him. Honestly, any excuse to be on his wheels again was a welcome intermission from having all of the Autobots breathing down his neck – even if one of them still would be.

Ratchet vented heavily and turned to follow him out of the tilted ship’s bridge. He’d have to make some preparations – and maybe take a moment to steel himself. He didn’t _want_ to take the ex-Decepticon with him to meet another (as far as he knew) full Decepticon. Especially not so far. But he found it difficult to trust Knock Out with going alone, especially so soon, and if anything befell the other Autobots because he left him with them instead, Ratchet knew he would never forgive himself.

It was going to be a long drive.

 

***

 

It had happened all at once, as most gamechangers often did. The sense of surfacing, like being underwater for a long time and suddenly losing the pressure and the weightlessness, and the hasty examination of his surroundings and of his servos ( _his_ servos), and Megatron was left with nothing but the expectation of a pounding headache later.

For now, he was thinking clearly. Perhaps more so than he had been in a long time. He understood that now, perhaps because an extended dose of Unicron’s ethereal torture had a way of sharpening the processor to a raw and bleeding point.

Megatron stood alone at the bridge he had watched Unicron destroy with summoned cannons, staring blankly down over the edge and into the space where the bridge used to be. The smelting pit down there was still active, light and heat rising up from it and making the air ripple. Starscream had been correct about one thing, at least; wandering to the pit alone had given his mind time to settle. But he didn’t want to think about Starscream, right now. Or any of the Decepticons.

Which just bore the difficult question, what _was_ he to think about? What was left?

He could no longer identify whether that question was about his future or his past. What was left for him to do, or what was left of _him?_ He had never been one for philosophy. Just the simplicity of fairness, revenge, control…

Well, he had control. That at least was his again. Megatron held up a servo in front of him and flexed the digits on it, watching their undersides glint in the reddish light from the smelting pit below. His body belonged to him and he had decided, from now on, that would be where it stopped. Let him survive, let him defend himself, let him go where he pleased if he so wished it, but let his conquering end at the tips of his talons.

Megatron had nudged at the unfamiliar feeling in his processor, and realised that he was _tired._ Of everything. And so that would be the end of it.

His optics flicked from his raised claws and open palm, glanced away thoughtfully, and then his gaze fixed upwards on the sky. He hadn’t been keeping track of time, but apparently dawn had broken while he was lost in thought. As he turned his attention to the horizon, back the way he had come, a burst of coloured lights erupted into the sky and began to scatter, and with a strange and unfamiliar calm, it occurred to Megatron that once the appeal of conquering and claiming was gone, Cybertron was of no interest to him any more.

“Alright, then.”

With the heavy grind of transformation and the boom of the superluminal drive kicking in, the former Lord Megatron was gone.

 

***

 

“You really ought to lighten up,” Knock Out grumbled for what felt like the fiftieth time, but was probably only the third. The emergency vehicle cruising alongside him at a brisk yet steady pace had already scolded him twice for revving too loudly and driving on ahead, and he was beginning to realise that a life with the Autobots may not actually involve any less sneaking out to race than with the Decepticons. He was still young, damn it – he had places to be, things to do, sanity to keep. If being stuck with the crotchety old ‘bot as a peer he never asked for meant slowing down and keeping pace, Knock Out was already considering running freelance. They’d have to _let_ him. Right?

“It’s called following protocol,” Ratchet responded matter-of-factly. “Rush too fast to a patient and we’d be risking injuring ourselves. That wouldn’t help anyone.”

“Mm _hmm._ And how often have you followed that protocol before? I seem to remember reports coming in of a certain Autobot medic breaking the Earth speed limit more than once when _your_ teammates were in trouble.”

Ratchet was silent for a moment, barring the steady hum of engines. “That was different,” he said lamely.

Knock Out pulled in front of him restlessly and circled around to the other side with some tweaking of his speed. He could tell his reckless driving was beginning to get on the older medic’s last nerve, and he didn’t care. If Ratchet wanted to keep him on a leash, this would be the result. _“Different?”_ he purred. “Why? Because back then it was one of your precious teammates and now it’s Starscream? Whatever happened to the Hippocratic Oath?”

The ambulance sped up slightly to block him as he attempted to circle around in front again. “At least you’ve done your Earth research. I didn’t think you the type.”

 _“Moi?_ You underestimate me, Ratchet. Earth culture is _precisely_ my thing.”

“Hmm,” Ratchet replied doubtfully. “What part of it? Road safety?”

“…Road _etiquette,_ ” he corrected. “But I’ll have you know I did a little dabbling in human medical history. Just to see if they’d developed anything useful to _us,_ of course. Some of it was quite interesting.”

“Ye-e-es, well. I don’t think that qualifies you to lecture me on morals. And nor does being a Decepticon.”

“Ex-Decepticon,” Knock Out interjected hurriedly. He had a feeling Ratchet wouldn’t be the only one he’d have to remind more than once. “Anyway,” he continued haughtily, “I’m _learning._ You can’t expect me to change overnight.”

Ratchet was slow to reply, and when he did, his tone was low and grumbling. “I don’t expect you to change at all.”

“Laying it on thick, aren’t you?” Knock Out snapped, but Ratchet had disappeared. Checking his wingmirror, he realised the ambulance had slowed down, and he eased on the brakes in response as he realised why.

Ahead lay the coordinates Starscream had pitched to them – the destination they already knew to be Darkmount.

They pulled to a halt in the shadow of the spire, and Knock Out followed Ratchet’s lead in transforming and heading across a small bridge over a chasm in the floor.

“Thinking about it,” Knock Out ventured carefully, optics straying up at the imposing dark shape ahead of them, “this could be a trap.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ratchet replied calmly.

It occurred to Knock Out, not for the first time, how much more experience the older medic had in comparison. He knew himself to be skilled – he could patch up a damaged Cybertronian in minutes flat, if he had to, because Megatron had made certain of that – but as much as he prided himself on his abilities, Knock Out hadn’t had all that much experience outside of the medical bay. Not as anything other than a scout, at least, or a warrior or _cannon fodder_ or whatever else it was that Megatron had demanded of him at the time. Decepticons didn’t bother patching up their soldiers out in the field. There was no point. You either made it back (or someone dragged you), or your spark ended firmly on the battlefield.

Knock Out knew the Autobots took more care over their own. No doubt Ratchet had been called out into the field with a medical kit more times than Knock Out had buffed scratches out of his finish.

He glanced across at the calm and confident Ratchet once more, and made himself stand a little taller as they crossed the threshold into Darkmount. Knock Out would not be outdone.


	3. making connections

Jack knew it had been too long. They’d agreed that they’d only contact them in cases of _emergency,_ and apparently one had happened or else Ratchet would never have left. But that didn’t mean he was any less torn up about it, if he was honest with himself. Ratchet was gone, _everyone_ was gone, and if anything happened to the space bridge in their absence Jack highly doubted even Rafael was smart enough to repair it. And then what?

…Admittedly, it didn’t seem likely that would happen. As far as any of them understood, the Earth was safe. Safer than it had been in centuries, even if the threat had been disguised for most of that. The war was over. Which meant that all of these intrusive, paranoid thoughts were probably just the result of being dragged into the war too quickly and too young and he didn’t even want to _think_ about how the others were feeling about this. He’d never seen Miko cry so hard after Bulkhead was gone.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Ratchet would stay gone. He had every reason to. It was his home planet, and even though the old medic ‘bot had insisted he would stay (and they knew better than to argue, for his sake and not theirs), Jack was pretty sure he knew homesickness when he saw it. What was to stop Ratchet from changing his mind and never coming back? What was to stop _any_ of them?

 _Just a space bridge away._ Bumblebee had said it himself, with his newfound voice, the one that surprised Jack because of just how _eloquent_ the ‘bot had really been without him or Miko ever knowing. But they all knew the truth: the bridge was only usable by the Autobots, not the humans. Jack knew the atmosphere on Cybertron wouldn’t support them, renewed or not. So it was not up to them when the Cybertronians visited – if they ever did…

Jack gave himself a mental slap in the face. He knew better than this. He knew _them_ better.

Not that that stopped him reaching for his phone, almost falling out of bed just to fish it out of the discarded pair of jeans lying crumpled on the floor. Within the minute he’d fired off a text to Rafael.

_any word? -JD_

Never mind that it was two in the morning – Jack doubted a text would wake him. They were all attuned to the sound of their ringtones, having been ready to spring awake at a moment’s notice to bridge out and save the world, but they’d all set their text tones to something a little more subtle. It had been Miko’s idea. She’d gotten it right after setting Ratchet’s call tone to some ironically terrible club music.

Apparently Rafael was already awake, however, because his phone buzzed a minute later with a response. Jack felt a little pang of guilt, in case he’d woken him, but the message reassured him otherwise.

_No. Can’t sleep. -RE_

“Huh. You and me both,” Jack muttered to the dark bedroom, and tapped out another text.

_can we contact them? -JD_

This time the reply was faster, presumably because Rafael had now shaken off whatever drowsiness he’d had – or maybe just located his glasses.

_You don’t think it’s too soon? -RE_

Jack paused. Rafael had a point. They’d all dearly wanted to stay in close contact with the Autobots ever since they’d left, but Ratchet had made his usual _that’s-a-bad-idea_ noises and waved them away from the console. The others would be busy. It would be a bad idea to call them every time they needed help with homework. But maybe, if they waited a few weeks, and things settled down a little, they could send a message to Optimus and arrange a good time for the other Autobots to visit.

He sighed. So much for that.

_no. it was bad enough when ratch was here but now all we have is fowler. dunno if hes gonna bother keeping us in the loop much. consultants schmonsultants, lol –JD_

There was a good minute or so where Jack wasn’t sure if he’d gone too far. He didn’t want to admit he was worried, not to Rafael – through all that had happened, he’d tried to be responsible for him, at least a little; worrying a twelve-year-old unnecessarily just didn’t seem like the right thing to do.

Rafael was sharp, though. If Jack predicted correctly, he’d be worried already.

When the reply came, he felt himself smile automatically at the screen.

_Good. I already made plans, but I was waiting for you or Miko to say it first :)_  
_Tomorrow, hangar, 10AM? -RE_

Jack tapped out a response in the affirmative, then forwarded the details to Miko; when his phone registered the messages as sent, he left it on the nightstand and rolled over onto his side. He had a feeling it would be a lot easier to sleep now that they actually had some semblance of a plan.

 

***

 

Knock Out was the first to move.

“By the _Allspark,_ ” came a dismayed voice from somewhere behind him, between the clicking of his footsteps on the metal floor. “Can’t he stay out of trouble for five klicks?”

“You know Starscream,” he muttered, sidestepping around the sticky pool of energon that had leaked across the floor. “Though I will admit this is the first time I’ve seen him in such bad shape since Megatron found out about his betrayal…”

He knelt down, for a moment just looking him over. Starscream was worryingly still. He knew the commander was _resilient –_ by Primus, he could take a beating, but this was another level of broken that Megatron had always taken care to avoid. What was the use of keeping around a flight commander if you weren’t certain he could make a recovery?

Knock Out touched a digit to the floor, swiping up some of the energon on his fingertips and rubbing it between them experimentally. “It’s cold. If you’d be so kind as to – ah, there.” He waited with an arm resting on his knee as Ratchet held out a medical scanner and swept it up and down. It made a series of negative beeps, but both medics relaxed slightly. At least it was detecting _something._

“Alive,” Ratchet confirmed, “just barely. Knock Out, he may need an energon donor before the end of today.”

“Say no more,” he replied, unable to keep the grudge out of his tone. He managed not to ask _why me,_ at least, because he already knew why – Ratchet was older, more experienced, and above all, he was the one with the prestige here. They were Autobots now. Knock Out supposed that as the newest and least respected member, he had to expect to take on the dirty work first. “…His cabling is _mangled,_ ” he remarked, carefully attempting to pry a bent chestplate out of the way. It wouldn’t budge. “Donor or not, everything’s just going to spill straight out again without some serious–“ He scowled and steadied his posture for a second before heaving on it and ripping the whole thing off with a sharp metallic snapping sound. “– _operation._ ”

“ _Knock Out!”_

He tipped his head on one side sarcastically, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. “If you want me to handle him with velvet gloves, he’ll be dead before we can make the transfer,” he snapped quickly. “First things first. Hand me the jumper cable – we need to snap him out of stasis. His repair nanites have offlined along with the rest of him.”

It surprised him, actually, when a moment later the cable was placed into his outstretched servo. Their methods were different; Ratchet was more used to a delicate approach, but he was trained well enough to know practicality from cruelty. The younger medic’s coarser approach to healing was more painful – but _fast._ With the way Starscream’s chassis was looking, apparently Ratchet was willing to believe time was of the essence.

Knock Out hooked the cable up to a jack in his wrist, having to split one of Starscream’s wires just to attach the other end (the connector had been dented beyond use).

“On three. Hold him down. I expect he’s going to be quite _shocked._ ”

Ratchet knelt down on Starscream’s other side, and strong servos locked in place over the prone air commander’s torso and one remaining pauldron. Knock Out tried to focus on the job at hand, and not the strange head rush he was getting at the realisation that the older medic was doing as he was instructed. Being listened to was… new.

“One,” he began, “two… _three._ ”

All at once Starscream’s right optic lit up (the other was damaged, beyond repair but not replacement, they’d fix that later) and the red glow flickered a couple of times before all of his systems came online. And once they did, there was a rough and sticky gasp from the air commander and then he was writhing, panicking, blind to everything except the pain of consciousness that had suddenly been thrust upon him – and his damaged claws gave only a warning twitch before lunging into defensive action.

“Starscream,” Knock Out tried, having to pin down the injured jet’s arm to avoid getting some nasty scratches to his finish. “Starscream, don’t you dare!Lie _still,_ slag you!”

The air commander’s voice was weak and sputtering in and out, his voice box damaged but still semi-functional, and some fresh energon spattered out of his mouth as he attempted (and failed) to put words to the agony he’d been woken up to.

Knock Out glanced up; Ratchet was staring at him. Waiting for him to take the initiative, he realised, this was a _test,_ of course it was, he wouldn’t risk it on one of his own teammates after all… Knock Out stared back at him in alarm for a second before forcing himself to focus back on the commander still writhing beneath him.

“ _Starscream!_ I can only salvage you as long as you _lie still_ and don’t break anything else! Now stop struggling _and don’t you dare scratch my paint!”_

The word _paint_ seemed to register, making him go still for a moment despite the way his broken claws were still twitching under the medic’s servo. His one working optic widened in recognition.

“…Doctor?!”

“Doctor Knock Out,” he identified quickly. “And doctor’s orders are not to move. You’ve-“ he waved frantically at Ratchet with his free servo, indicating that his presence would not make this any easier if Starscream saw him too soon, and to his relief the older medic carefully let go and took a couple of steps back; “-lost a lot of energon, I’m trying to fix you up so the rest of it will stay on the inside. I _know_ it hurts, but we don’t have the liberty of shutting down your pain receptors right now. So stay still. By Primus, what happened to being a trained air commander?”

Ratchet watched from what he’d calculated to be Starscream’s current blind spot, aware that the Decepticon’s optic was far too damaged to pick him up, and frowned slightly. He’d known Starscream had been severely injured before, and they’d all suspected Megatron, but it hadn’t occurred to him just how _routine_ this would be for both him and Knock Out. Starscream was actually heeding him.

…Out of self-preservation, he noted, not trust. It was logical that Starscream would do as his doctor told him if this had happened before. They were following their own type of protocol. Decepticon protocol?

Starscream jerked and tensed up for a moment as Knock Out dipped both servos into the mangled chest area and began to neaten up the more critical wiring messes. “Nggrrh, _s--scrap._ ”

“Good. Lie still. What happened?” Keep his mind occupied, Knock Out found, and the rest of Starscream would rarely prove to be an issue.

“Pr- _zzt,_ ” he responded lamely as his voicebox shorted out, then tried again a moment later with some attempt to put less stress on it. Something heavy had been on his throat, then. “ _Predaking_ happened,” he growled thickly. “ _And_ his _pets._ ”

Knock Out spared a glance up at Ratchet for a moment. Well, not like they didn’t already know. The dents and slashes in Starscream’s chassis could really only have been made by Predacons. That, or a _really big_ Earth shark.

Knock Out winced as a wire fizzled and snatched his servo away. Starscream made a pained expression, and then his functioning optic settled pointedly on the medic’s faceplate.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?!”

“Apologies, Starscream, but you’re a real mess! It’s going to be rocky until I can stitch up your system – if I don’t get it done quick, the rest of your energon is going to _leak.”_

Starscream’s helm dropped dismally to one side as the commander apparently gave up on whatever biting retort he’d been brewing. His processor was too fogged up with pain to give him anything substantial. Better to save the silver tongue for later, when he wasn’t bleeding all over Darkmount.

Knock Out prompted someone over his shoulder without taking his optics off his work. “ _Doctor,_ I’d say now is a good time to run a diagnostic, don’t you?”

The older medic blinked, registering that this meant Starscream was now sound enough of mind to be aware of him, and stepped forward. The jet flinched at the sound of an unexpected presence in the room, turning his head to try and locate the source of the footsteps with his working eye; sensing it was probably better to get this over with quickly, Ratchet took care to stand in full view while he held up the medical scanner again. “Well,” he declared loudly, “let’s see how deep the damage goes.”

“Y-you.” Starscream was confused, clearly, but thankfully not launching into a full-on panic just yet. “I… called you,” he said slowly, taking his time to let his ill-fuelled processor catch up. “The message-“

“Got through, yes. I was just a little late receiving it.” He relaxed, reassured for the time being that Starscream was not going to react too aversely to him being there. Knock Out had eased the commander out of the initial instinctive panic phase and he was beginning to get a grip on his senses, at least enough to remember that Autobot did not equal danger. Not this Autobot, at least, not _now._ “Well, he’s missing a lot of his armour and plating – most of it seems to be accounted for, at least,” he muttered, glancing around the room at the scattered bits of metal, “but there’s some that isn’t here. Might have been knocked off the edge of Darkmount while the Predacons were using him as a chew-toy. Er… hrrm.” He muttered incomprehensibly through a few lesser details as Starscream shifted uncomfortably on the floor. Knock Out batted his shoulder to get him to stay still. “…Lacerations all over his remaining plating, a few nasty dents… a few potentially deep enough to damage the systems underneath. We should remove anything that looks like it’s digging in, it can all be replaced later… There’s some major damage to his right optic–”

“Why are _both_ of you here?” Starscream demanded. Apparently his processor hadn’t yet made the connection between this and the memory of Knock Out’s betrayal. That, or his memory was damaged, but mercifully neither of them had detected any major issues with his helm.

Ratchet ignored him for a moment in favour of continuing his report. “…A dislocated rotator cup, a mangled servo, and a lot of slashed internals. He’s also lost a lot of energon, but we knew that… Focus on closing his system loop first, so that we can replace some of the energon he’s lost. We can buy time to fuss over the externals later.”

Knock Out nodded up at him and then refocused on the task at hand, for the moment too wrapped up in his work to come up with any clever snark to add to the situation. Ratchet felt oddly respectful of the other medic’s space, despite not trusting him as far as he could throw him. They were both professionals. He just hadn’t realised _how_ professional the ex-‘con could be, in a pinch.

Starscream seemed to have answered his own question. His optic flickered feebly across to regard Knock Out with a spiteful glare. “You. You switched sides,” he mumbled accusingly, though he sounded more like a frequently-kicked puppy complaining about a change in shoe size.

The red medic glanced up to meet his optic and then a sly smirk crossed his faceplate. “You know what they say, Starscream. When the going gets tough, the tough get going… towards the nearest exit,” he finished, deadpan. “And I’d like to state for the record that if I hadn’t snapped the immobiliser over your self-important helm when I did, we might not be here to argue. In case you didn’t _notice,_ Starscream, the Autobots saved Cybertron. And I, for one, do not regret my decision.”

Ratchet eyed him carefully over the top of the scanner. He was tempted, admittedly, to turn the thing on Knock Out instead, and take a reading of his spark fluctuations. If the former Decepticon was lying…

…But, no. Optimus had been ready to trust him. He wanted the Autobots to be a team, and he hadn’t had to state outright that Knock Out was officially on it. The other medic had proved his metal already.

So Ratchet stepped in to interrupt as the commander looked about to give a scathing reply. “Starscream, you may as well drop the high-and-mighty act. There’s no war left to fight any more. No sides to _pick.”_

Starscream gave a soft whine, his expression tightening in realisation. “Oh, _Primus_. Lord Megatron. He… He _left,_ didn’t he?”

“Oh, and good riddance to _him,_ too!” Knock Out exclaimed cheerfully, apparently either not picking up on Starscream’s dismay or opting to ignore it. Then, on a more irritable note: “Though apparently _some_ of us can still get into ample trouble _without_ Mr. High-and-Mighty.” He held two cables together and they spat sparks, making Starscream flinch and make a pained noise. Knock Out twisted the bare ends of the wires together, a rough and ill-contrived patch job that zapped his fingers and made him wince, and then tucked the temporary fix away with the rest and leaned back to take a breather. “Well, there’s still a lot of damage, but at least everything seems to be connected.” He flinched back as another spit of faulty wiring nearly scorched his servo. “…More or less.”

The commander tilted his helm slightly, trying to see into the mess that was his chest wiring, and made a noise that was probably supposed to be a growl but instead just came out as a short, stifled whine. “Don’t you dare presume your job to be finished, Knock Out.”

The red medic all but laughed, pressing a servo earnestly to his spark. “On the contrary. I’m sure the old _colour clash_ would be _horrified_ to know his team’s brand-new trainee didn’t do his job. I _believe–”_ and here he turned to give Ratchet a barely-questioning look, to which the older medic nodded “-I’m to restore you to full working order.” Looking back to see Starscream looking (hilariously, he thought) _lost,_ Knock Out grinned confidently. “Come, now, Starscream, we’re all goody-goodies over on Team Prime. Besides,” he added, piercing red optics locking onto Starscream’s and his tone suddenly disgusted, “death is too good for you.”

Before the commander could respond, there was a sudden whizz of colour at Knock Out’s shoulder. All three of the Cybertronians’ attentions turned to the spark hovering there – and then, slowly, to the view between the pillars.

“We have company,” Ratchet quietly pointed out.

The sparks that had erupted from the Well that morning had been slow to spread across Cybertron. They’d mostly found their way to the larger clusters of buildings nearby, as if unwilling to roam too far while they re-familiarised themselves with the concept of _living_. Apparently now a few of them had begun to venture further afield; there were three now exploring Darkmount’s open throne room, and as Starscream watched, one of them tentatively hovered in the air in front of his faceplate before whizzing off to continue its exploration.

His only movement was to turn his helm to Knock Out for some kind of explanation, his mouth hanging slightly open and his one functioning optic wide and fearful. _How?_

The medic wasn’t looking at him. When he eventually turned around, the look on Starscream’s faceplate made him smirk. “Oh, that’s right. You weren’t there when Optimus Prime gave his little speech.”

“Not now, Knock Out,” came the warning tone from somewhere behind him.

He made a deadpan expression, optics flickering to the side and back as if to gesture to Starscream how little he appreciated the older medic’s gruff interruptions, but without another word Knock Out calmly took the tools that Ratchet handed to him and began to set up an energon transfer as though he’d been listening to him all his life.

“You really did defect,” Starscream muttered in disbelief. “You don’t regret your choice, do you?”

Knock Out paused, caught off-guard by the question. His optics raised to meet Starscream’s, and then as his processor caught up, he gave a conspiratorial smirk.

“Amazing what a little appreciation can do.”


	4. wheels in motion

If anyone had asked her precisely how long she had been waiting, it seemed unlikely they’d get an answer. She could blame it on the addled processor functions that had lost her there in the first place, or the unfamiliar view of the stars and the emptiness and the dead planet that all turned her mind in circles – but she knew it didn’t matter, wasn’t the point. She could have been here for vorns or cycles – the timespan had been erased from her memory, along with everything she’d done in it.

Regardless, it was now that she found herself blinking at the cool and strange light of a Cybertron reawakened, hanging in space above her as the silent moon she was on drifted in idle twirls around it.

She had shaken herself awake just a few cycles ago, and knowing this reassured her that her sense of time had returned. The idle Insecticons lying in crumpled heaps around her told her more or less what had become of her after her encounter with Silas – no, _CYLAS;_ the cursed abomination had infected her, turned her into… something _angrier_ and _stupider_ and unforgivably _feral._ Airachnid wanted others to fear her for her skill and her cunning and her deliberate ruthlessness, not for being a mindless drone like the Insecticons she controlled. There was no sense in picking fear as your weapon if you were too addled to wield it.

It had been pointless in the end, anyway. There was no one to frighten on a dead moon over a dead planet. And now her disposable army had dropped down dead, a mess Airachnid had no intention of mourning except for the fact they could have been useful. The energon-lust had pushed her to drain every last one into a living-dead husk of itself, and apparently when the Chaos Bringer’s hold over them all had been lost (she suspected she knew who was behind _that_ ), so had whatever was keeping them from collapsing in on themselves like empty Earth cicada shells.

She was currently keeping herself occupied with a nasty, seething bitterness at her predicament. Airachnid did not have the processing power to waste on hopelessness and apathy – at least not yet. Maybe in a few decacycles, when her energon was running low and her patience had worn thin, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it…

There was a light somewhere above her, something white-hot rocketing out of Cybertron’s atmosphere, and Airachnid followed it with wide, unblinking optics. Whatever it was, it seemed to be heading straight past, but if she could get its attention… maybe could be her ticket off this dismal rock.

Airachnid got to her feet, paying no heed to the soft crunch of an Insecticon helm collapsing to dust beneath her heel, and took stock of the situation. Her webs wouldn’t travel far enough, fast enough. A rock? Probably the same issue. No flares, no radio links, _nothing._ Airachnid narrowed her eyes and gave a hiss. Independence was so _valuable,_ but right now she knew she should have prepared.

One sad, abhorrent little option left. Airachnid held two pointed digits to an audial and sent out a radio hail, quick and dirty and short-range and on the only frequency she had any faith in: Decepticon.

Airachnid folded her arms and waited and hoped. The chances were slim that this would be a Decepticon, so far from Earth, but the other possibilities were even slimmer and honestly didn’t bear thinking about. For a moment, nothing happened, regardless, and Airachnid felt an angry flare of betrayal (how _dare_ the universe not cater to her now?) before her optics registered that the thing was changing trajectory.

…Far too quickly, and with a sonic boom that rang in Airachnid’s audials long after it had landed, the object she’d signalled to crashed down on the moon with enough ground-shaking force to leave a heavy crater on the surface. And then, with a slow and easy motion amid the clouds of disturbed Insecticon corpsedust, the Cybertronian stood up.

For a long, dread-filled moment, she took in the new details. Armour she didn’t recognise, and an insignia she did; spikes and claws and an unnatural metal that filled her with strange sense of unease the same way a blight or a curse or a _disease_ might.

She knew him well, though, and Airachnid reminded herself that she was not squeamish nor a coward.

“Megatron,” she acknowledged, her voice a little more strained than she meant it to be. Megatron’s optics flickered once down to the mess of corpses around her, and then back up unfazed. “Fancy meeting _you_ here. Nice chassis.”

The tyrant regarded her with a silence she didn’t recognise as his – it was too calm and too detached, like his trademark anger was simply not there. Then, with a slight raise of a metal brow (oh, thank Primus, he still hated her, she knew that look and for once it was reassuring) Megatron spoke.

“Airachnid. I was under the impression Soundwave terminated you.”

She paused. His tone was still too dry, like any other sentient creature might discuss the weather, but at least he’d broken his silence. Airachnid held up a servo and made a vague gesture. _“Mmm._ I’d say this is quite the terminal sentence,” she purred. And then, because he already knew: “I was rather hoping you’d be someone else.”

Megatron _hesitated._

“That would not be entirely incorrect.”

 

***

 

Lab work was much more efficient with a working set of lights. Shockwave had often found it necessary to switch them off and rely on the dim red glare of emergency lighting, when the night or the dust wore on the solar panelling up on the surface and he did not have the liberty of tapping into the main power grid. But now the planet lived, and his laboratory’s efficiency was up even if his was not.

He spared a thought for the years of scientific advancement this promised, and did not lament his snapped fin and cracked optic glass. The war was over. These things could be fixed later. Right now, Shockwave understood he had a job to do.

Or, at least, a choice to make.

With the Decepticon cause on hold (he had watched Megatron streak across the sky and swerve upwards offworld with some interest), Shockwave understood that he had no reason to expend any more time or energy on Project Predacon. He rested his servo on the control panel without touching anything, staring in silence at the tube in front of him, and for a long time he didn’t move an inch. No reason didn’t mean no benefits. There was a lot that was still not understood about Predacons and their nature, but what could he rightfully attribute to _nature_ when his creations had been force-grown from samples and brought into a world with no experienced peers?

Whatever they had been once upon a time didn’t matter to progress. It was what they _could_ be that was in the interest of scientific advancement. And yet Shockwave was no fool. Predaking was no more his pet now than he was Megatron’s, and the Predacons seemed unlikely to report back to him for behavioural studies. Which begged the question: what would be the point of bringing another Predacon to life?

It defied logic. But he was no stranger to that any more.

“I do not take well to having my work spied upon,” he declared coldly.

The click of metal claws brought their owner into the light, but Shockwave didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. One set of footsteps, heavy; the minute rattle of spiked plating; a silence too deliberate to belong to one of the excitable new recruits. Though no doubt they had been the reason Predaking knew where to find him.

“I do not take well to having secrets kept from me. As everyone seems _intent_ on finding out the hard way.” He didn’t bother to keep the growl from his voice, but he was curbing the instinct to be angry. Shockwave had created him. Perhaps he owed him that small courtesy, or the level of control. Maybe controlling himself was the point.

Shockwave tapped a few buttons and activated a screen that showed the creature’s vital signs. “Telling you seemed illogical. You had… a temper. I could not risk Project Predacon. Nor that you would eliminate Starscream while he was aiding my cause.”

“I would not so easily disrupt Project Predacon,” Predaking snapped. Then his tone shifted to one of quiet curiosity, and there was an undertone that was almost timid. “My question is, will you?” He should have been angrier. But life had been strange so far. Predaking had already given up expecting anything to make sense. At least for now, it was easier if he mostly allowed himself to be taken along for the ride and didn’t examine his feelings too closely.

Shockwave tilted his helm upwards slightly, staring past the crack in his lens at the floating specimen, and the thought occurred to him that it might not have to be his choice to make. The _project_ was his, but the fact had become quite clear that Predacons were no longer under his jurisdiction. The question of control was dubious at best.

“I do not know,” he said truthfully.

Predaking didn’t seem to know what to do with that information. They were both silent for a long time, until eventually Predaking closed the rest of the distance to the unborn specimen and reached up to rest his claws gently on the container. Shockwave could see the reflection of his faceplate in the glass, and his expression was calm. He had evidence that Predacons were far more unpredictable than modern Cybertronians, but that evidence was contradicted by the realisation that Predaking had every intention of acting civilised. Perhaps of _becoming_ civilised. There was probably a difference.

For all his vorns spent in the field of science, Shockwave was beginning to realise that he understood very little about anything.

“Then what happens next is my choice,” Predaking stated firmly, but the way he then turned to look at Shockwave betrayed his uncertainty.

The scientist nodded once. He was… okay with that. The specimen would be of little use to him now anyway. Perhaps it was right to let Predaking take command.

The Predacon’s optics dropped from staring at the scientist as he lost himself in thought for a moment, committing himself to the responsibility. Then he turned back to the container and made his will clear. “See the Predacon through to its birth, and make sure that I am here to bear witness.”

Shockwave knew this to be the most logical answer Predaking could have given. His species was on the verge of re-extinction. Bolstering their numbers even by one was a substantial positive. “As you wish.”

“And if I find that you have terminated the project before this Predacon joins our ranks, I will hunt you to all the corners of Cybertron.”

“Understood.”

Predaking let his clawed servo drop, turning away from the test-tube specimen to confront Shockwave properly. The scientist waited patiently for another threat, a calm dismissal at the ready, but it didn’t come.

“You are being… surprisingly agreeable.”

The answer came easily, to his surprise. “My jurisdiction ends with logic. This is mad science.”

Predaking stared at him for what felt like the longest moment. Then, as the deadpan joke registered, a sharp-toothed smile broke on his faceplate. “You would call my cause _mad?”_ he prompted, curious to know how far Shockwave would push it.

“No.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “But one scientist attempting to revive an extinct species with minimal resources and zero assistance… _That_ is madness.”

Predaking faltered, his optics widening just a little. “You would try to revive the species?” It was more than he had asked. More than he had thought possible, honestly, but he knew little of science.

Shockwave pushed down the part of him stating that this was an illogical move, a new tier of insanity matched only by Starscream or Megatron or Knock Out’s pseudo-medical exploration, and looked away to begin reactivating safety protocols. “I do not see why not. Team Prime revived a planet.”

Predaking’s grin widened. “You make a logical point.”

They both knew that in all likelihood Unicron’s raised army of Predacon bones had shattered to irretrievable dust. They knew that any other remains, if they existed, would be buried deep within the planet – or scattered far across the reaches of space like the clone fragments on Earth. A vast, improbable scavenger hunt, for which they had no tools or transport. Madness.

And yet they had both reached an age of aimlessness. Now that there was no cause binding them, and no masters to give orders, perhaps now was precisely the right time for an illogical quest.

Shockwave looked up again, feeling oddly encouraged, and met his creation’s level stare. He gestured casually with one servo. “Logic has very little to do with it.”

 

***

 

“ _Ehp._ Heels off the windscreen.”

Muttering sourly, Starscream obediently shifted his feet forwards so that they rested more on the hood. The humiliation was beginning to get to him, but at least it seemed like the old Autobot was almost as put out as he was. Knock Out had point-blank refused to do this particular job for fear of Starscream scratching his paint job – and besides, _wasn’t_ Ratchet _the emergency vehicle?_

So, because his sense of self-preservation was somehow still a bare notch higher than his sense of dignity, Starscream had _allowed_ them to pick him up off the floor, had decided to keep his claws to himself when Knock Out complained about the close proximity to his sharp edges, had kept his mouth shut when Ratchet made a passing comment along the lines of _thank Primus jets are built light, or is that just because you’re missing half your plating?_ and he didn’t snap at them too loudly when they got outside and Ratchet decided vehicle mode was the fastest way of getting back.

If he could fly, he wouldn’t need them at all. But his wings were arranged in Knock Out’s back seat and the rest of his scattered plating was in the trunk, and Starscream could barely face the thought of _walking_ anywhere, let alone flying. So he’d agreed to swallow his pride for the sake of getting the rest of the medical help he knew he needed, and surrendered to their… mercy.

Well, mercy was not something Starscream was familiar with. Primus _forgive_ him if he was in no mood to be civil.

“I think I’m bleeding,” he grumbled.

“I watched Knock Out patch you up. He did an… _acceptable_ job. Stop complaining.” The old medic wasn’t at his wits’ end just yet, but he was getting there. One preening, attention-seeking ex-Decepticon had been _more_ than enough, but put two within hearing distance…

“Acceptable!” came the retort he’d been fully expecting. Knock Out accelerated, drawing level with the older ‘bot but not quite annoyed enough to leave him in the dust just yet. “I’ll have you know _I_ was the reason the Decepticon army was still a force to be reckoned with after Megatron ran everyone ragged! You had, what, four? _Five_ Autobots to stick band-aids on?”

“Six,” he corrected thinly.

“ _What_ is a band-aid?”

“ _Shut up,”_ the two medics snapped simultaneously.

Starscream scoffed irritably and pretended to look back at the scenery.

Ratchet was quiet for a while, thanking his lucky stars that Knock Out was apparently sulking enough to let him think. He knew he shouldn’t be _encouraging_ the ex-‘con’s resentment. But the younger medic had a way of getting under his plating, and it was difficult to hand him credit for doing his job when he used to bat for the other team.

Still. Optimus would want him to play nice.

“…Knock Out. I know you’re not accustomed to this team yet, but there are a few things you’ll need to get used to.” Ratchet kept his attention on the road, but he knew Knock Out was listening. He wasn’t the type to be this quiet if he _wasn’t_. “Firstly, don’t go around bragging about what you did while wearing the Decepticon badge. The others won’t take kindly to being reminded you used to try and offline them.”

 _“I_ joined your team to do a job without becoming zombie fodder. They’ll see how charming I am sooner or later – until then, I don’t _care_ what they think. Is the war over, or isn’t it?”

“It is,” Ratchet agreed tiredly. “But that’s not the point. You’re an Autobot. Things will be easier if you act like it.” Before Knock Out could come up with a response (and he knew he would), he continued. “Secondly: don’t second-guess me. I’ve got a lot more experience, and I know-“

“Know _what?”_ Knock Out snapped. “How to fix a broken fuse in eight klicks? The formula for induced offlining by spark-?”

“-that a medic’s worth is tied to his work,” Ratchet finished firmly. Knock Out fell mercifully silent. “You’re not all bad at what you do. I just want to be sure. I’ve never watched you in action – not before today.”

There was a long pause, during which he felt Starscream shift uncomfortably three times on his roof, and then Knock Out pulled back a bit to fall in line beside him.

“Well,” he said quietly, with an awkwardness that suggested he wasn’t actually sure what to do with a veiled compliment (or, at least, one that was about his skill and not his appearance); “you’re… not too shabby either. I mean, that synthetic energon formula may not have been perfect first time, but–” he paused, a slight tremor of laughter in his voice that he couldn’t quite keep out, “–you punched Megatron in the _face._ ”

“…Don’t remind me.”

“No, really. Do you know, later on he asked me to check his denta...”

“Oh, for Primus’ sake, just drop me off here so I can bleed out in peace,” Starscream snarled in disgust.

Ratchet swerved violently, eliciting a high-pitched squeal from his awkward passenger, and Knock Out began laughing in earnest. Despite his little lapse in professionalism, Optimus would be proud of the Autobots. _All_ of them.


	5. fixed connections

Ratchet had years of experience with sudden distress calls to thank for not dropping his screwdriver straight into Starscream’s internals. His head jerked up, fixing Knock Out with a shocked stare beneath the purplish lighting of the Nemesis.

“You _what?_ ”

The ex-Decepticon winced, tilting his head to one side and resting most of his weight on one hip. Ratchet was beginning to recognise Knock Out’s posturing, and this meant he felt challenged. Well, _let him._

“I… was never officially sanctioned,” he repeated, and then hurried to tack on, “but the war was going on! I didn’t have time for _medical degrees_ -“

 _“Knock Out,”_ Ratchet snapped, mortified. “You told me you were qualified. I let you _operate._ ”

“Oh, big whoop. So did Starscream and Megatron!” Knock Out waved a servo angrily. “Besides, I _am_ qualified. Technically. I can show you the files! What difference does it make _now_ if they’re marked with a Decepticon signature?”

Ratchet answered with a not-so-gentle backhanded thump against Knock Out’s chestplate, effectively brushing him away from the operating berth, and huffily got back to work making solid repairs. “One of his fans is bent. Can’t afford to replace that,” he muttered. “Fetch me a smaller screwdriver. It’ll be a patch job.”

The younger medic placed it immediately into his hand, apparently seeing fit to continue helping even despite the grilling he was preparing to receive. “Well? Aren’t you going to reprimand me? Drop a few points on my driving license?” he asked sarcastically.

“No,” Ratchet muttered irritably, refusing to make eye contact. “But I will need to run you through some training protocols. Health and safety. _Basic procedure._ That kind of thing.” Ignoring the blatant eye-rolling he could detect out of the corner of his optic, Ratchet leaned down closer to the fan and unsealed it quickly, lifting the cover and for a moment eyeing the twisted metal on the front. “This damage is old.”

Knock Out winced.

Ratchet turned his helm to give him a dangerous look, still holding the fan casing. “There’s a _lot_ of old damage here. You knew about it before we started,” he growled.

“Oh, come off it! Do you really think I had the time – or that I was _permitted the resources_ to fix every little scrape left on him? Starscream is a tough old bird, but I was usually more concerned with saving his _life_ than wasting time over an inefficient fan blade,” Knock Out scoffed.

“Inside his chassis,” Ratchet muttered in disbelief, beginning to unscrew the fan. “There’s old damage _beneath_ his plates.”

“Megatron had quite the backhander,” Knock Out clarified helpfully, but the melodic cheeriness left his tone when he was treated to an ironclad glare of disbelief. “Well, look – you get a little _desensitised_ when you’re expected to stand there and watch it happen half the time.I think the only one completely unaffected from the get-go was Soundwave. And we all know how emotional _he_ is.” Knock Out waved a servo again, worryingly dismissive.

A communications display by the wall lit up of its own accord, displaying static and broadcasting a low hiss. Ratchet fixed on it for a moment, deciding whether the event was enough for a change of topic, then opted to ignore it. Ship glitches had been lesser in frequency since they managed to get bits of the engine to stop being on fire, but that didn’t mean the Nemesis was completely stable.

“You’re missing the point.” He waggled the smaller screwdriver at Knock Out while his free servo picked at a scrap of loose wiring lying in the bottom of the fan case. _That_ shouldn’t be there. “That may be how things worked under Decepticon leadership, but-“

“Right, right, I know. Fix every little thing, spend all our resources on minor injuries, and make absolutely certain to have nothing left to use when someone falls and shatters a joint. The Autobot creed!” he declared, unimpressed – but his spark wasn’t in it. “I know,” he repeated a moment later, with a bit more sobriety. “Leave no ‘bot behind. It’s just a little… _mushy._ ” This term was accompanied by some cringey finger-wiggles, and not for the first time Ratchet considered welding his arms to his sides just to remove the distraction.

“Mushy isn’t my specialty either,” Ratchet said plainly, because it was true. “But there aren’t as many of us in Team Prime as there were in the Decepticon army; we couldn’t win with numbers, and it made sense to keep everyone in _full_ working order.” He paused, debating on whether to try a different tack, and decided to plough on. “ _And_ another thing. If you learn one lesson today, let it be this: if in doubt, act from the _spark.”_ He paused with his screwdriver held in mid-air, racking his processor for a good way of phrasing it. “I don’t have the time to give an ex-Decepticon a crash course in moral decisions. Just think… _‘What Would Optimus Do?’_ ” He waved the screwdriver vaguely, indicating he was done talking, and got back to work.

Knock Out thankfully managed to bite back the bark of laughter that threatened to bubble out, and settled for clearing his voicebank instead with a fake cough. He’d picked up a few habits from human media. Hopefully they’d get on Ratchet’s nerves as much as they had the other Decepticons’. “Not to be blunt, Ratchet, but I never _knew_ your Prime.”

“You were there for his speech. I’d say that was enough to tell you who Optimus was… and what he stood for.” He went quiet as he carefully lifted the fan out and placed it on a workbench, and stood there in contemplation for a second or two before sighing deeply and resting his palms gently on the bench. “Between you and me, the Prime part was starting to get old.”

“Mm. I expect you can relate.”

Ratchet gave a disagreeable grunt. “You haven’t been around long enough to start making that kind of joke without earning yourself a dented faceplate. Watch your manners.”

Knock Out held up his servos in defeat, flashing what he hoped to be a charming grin. “Noted! Noted.” He turned to switch off the glitching monitor, pausing for a moment to examine his reflection in the blank screen and tilted his head a little to check out a scratch on his helm. Must have happened in all the madness the night before. It wasn’t like him to miss that, but he hadn’t exactly had a mirror to hand. He dreaded to think what his finish was like in the places he hadn’t had time to check.

“Anyway, finish up,” Ratchet ordered, startling him out of his thoughts. “You’ve fixed Starscream before. Shouldn’t be too difficult, now that I’ve done most of the heavy operating. I’m going to check on the engines. I don’t mind if I never see the Nemesis in the sky again, but I won’t have it exploding next to the Well of All Sparks.”

“If in doubt, hit it with a wrench!” Knock Out advised as Ratchet left the medical bay in a huff.

“Don’t make me regret leaving you in charge of my patient,” came the response from halfway down the corridor. For some reason, it made him smile.

Knock Out’s attention turned to the comm screen, realising it had apparently lit up again while he wasn’t paying attention. He stared curiously at it, studying the empty static, then reached over to switch it off for the second time and turned back to his unconscious patient.

Starscream would no doubt have a lot of complaints when he woke up – _if_ he woke up. The damage was perhaps more extensive than Knock Out had ever seen it, even withMegatron’s severe punishment to think back on. He’d been playing it down, telling Ratchet _oh, Starscream has been through worse_ but if he was honest he wasn’t sure that was completely true. Megatron had always had the intent of leaving him alive. It was a game their oh-so-sane-and-wise leader played with the jet, seeing how far a Cybertronian could be pushed without their spark going out.

Predaking apparently had not been playing games. He had exacted revenge, and he had done it swiftly and _efficiently._ Whether or not Starscream’s spark fizzled after he left the scene hadn’t factored in; he had only been interested in making a mess of him. Knock Out wondered what the point had been.

Knock Out went to examine Ratchet’s array of medical tools, lifting one to examine it. He had a job to do. If he was to impress the Autobots, and secure his position among their ranks, he would have to perform as they wanted him to. As a ‘real doctor’, not a hack with a dissection hobby and the basic knowledge that _energon stays on the inside_. And Ratchet was right, of course – he had fixed Starscream before. He could do this. _Easy._

Behind him, the screen flickered back on and displayed more static. This time, Knock Out was too lost in his work and his thoughts to pay attention.

 

 

***

 

 

“Is it working?”

Rafael edged to one side and then hopped forwards onto a button that he knew would activate the screen. The sudden glow made him throw up a hand to shield his eyes. “Everything’s still online. Ratchet left it all set up in case we needed it.”

Miko made a _pff_ noise and folded her arms. “Like _you_ need the help. C’mon, hack into the communications network! I wanna talk to the Autobots!”

He peered up at the screen once his eyes had adjusted, then tapped at another couple of buttons with one foot. “Actually, he left that set up too. I don’t have to hack anything.”

“Ughh! What’s the point of being all sneaky if we’re allowed to do it? Just hurry it up, Raf.”

“Not to _rush you,”_ Jack said, with a pointed glance at Miko, “but Fowler probably still has this place checked. Just get the call going, okay?”

Raf smiled good-naturedly to himself and continued stepping on keys (like, he thought, some elaborate and careful game of DDR), and a moment later a communication window opened. Though it seemed like the video feed had been locked, the flickering volume display to one side let him know the audio was up and running. He stepped back to the edge of the keyboard and adjusted his glasses.

“Hello?” There was a scramble to his right as Jack and Miko hurried to climb across from the hangar platform, and Raf stumbled to stay upright as Miko made it over first and grabbed his arm when she overbalanced. “Ow – careful, Miko.”

There was a long silence.

“Think anyone’s-?” Jack began, but he was interrupted by the video feed suddenly blinking into life and a familiar voice crackling over the line.

“Breaker, breaker, this is Unit 38 of the Cybertronian Reawakening Force, Nemesis station – do you copy?”

“Smokescreen!” Rafael chirped excitedly, waving to the display.

The Autobot grinned back, tapping a few keys to adjust the volume and then looking back up at them with a friendly salute. “Sorry it took me a sec to respond. You’re lucky I was checking in – Ratchet put me on monitor duty, but there’s nothing to monitor. I stepped out for a while.”

Miko made an exasperated noise. “Go get Bulkhead! I wanna talk to him!”

“Miko,” Jack warned gently, putting a hand on her shoulder to quiet her, and then addressed Smokescreen. “It’s okay. Before you ask – there’s no emergency, or anything. We were just… worried. No one’s checked in with us for days. Is everything okay on Cybertron?”

Smokescreen grinned guiltily. “Yeah… sorry about that. It’s been a little hectic around here lately. I guess reporting back to you guys wasn’t too high on our priority list.” He brightened suddenly. “But everything’s okay. You wouldn’t _believe_ how okay everything is. I wish you could see it! There are new sparks everywhere – _total_ revitalisation. Bulkhead’s in charge of the rebuilding – he already got back to work, Miko, but I’m sure you’ll get to talk to him later.”

“Awww.”

Jack looked relieved. “Good. I mean – really, _good._ I was worried something might have happened. If everyone’s okay, then…” He trailed off. Smokescreen’s winglike car doors had lowered and he looked suddenly as though he’d blundered into a bad topic. This was unfortunately common for the rookie Autobot, but still a bad sign. “…Everyone’s _okay,_ right?”

“I forgot. You weren’t there. Sorry, I…” Smokescreen faltered.

“What happened?” Rafael asked timidly, and if anything the sincerity seemed to make him squirm more.

“…Optimus,” he said at last. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to break this kind of news. Optimus is… gone. It’s thanks to him that everyone’s safe – that Cybertron’s recovering, but…”

Jack stared, his expression suddenly hollow. Rafael glanced between him and the screen with a confused, disbelieving sort of look.

“He’s joking,” Miko declared. “Smokescreen – you’re joking, right? That’s not funny, dude. Even _I_ know not to kid around with that stuff.”

There was an awkward silence. Raf was the first to break it, in his usual quiet and earnest way. “I think he’s serious.” When no one said anything else, he forged on. “Was there a big fight?”

“…Yes and no.” Smokescreen shifted uncomfortably, his signature peppiness suddenly drained out of him and converted into nervous tension. “Megatron was here. But – he was possessed. By Unicron. It was complicated, I’ll get someone else to fill you in later, but… Optimus won the war. He didn’t go offline because of losing.” A beat. Smokescreen was careful to steady himself before continuing. “He had to… become one with the Allspark. Things got complex… There was no other way to ignite the Well once everything was over.”

For a long time, nobody said anything. It seemed like all the life had been sucked out of the conversation; the kids had all been ready for some bad news, just in case, but none of them knew what to do with _this_. Jack, for once, found it difficult to take the lead – and he had a feeling Smokescreen felt the same way. They’d seen eye-to-eye on a lot of things.

Miko to the rescue, then. “What about everyone else?”

“They’re fine,” Smokescreen said a little too quickly, relieved at the change of topic. “A little dinged up, but no worse for wear. Things are okay. We may have lost Optimus Prime, but… his spark isn’t really _gone,_ you know?”

She frowned at him accusingly. “You’re not gonna tell us you can ‘feel him in here’ or anything, are you?” she snapped, jabbing at her chest with her thumb. “Because that’s a pretty cheap way to talk to kids.”

Smokescreen shook his head quickly. “No, I mean – we all saw his spark fly out of the Well. Optimus is still around,” he clarified. “He’s just… not quite the same Optimus.”

Miko blinked, not sure quite what to do with that information. “You mean he’s like a ghost?”

“…Not really. More like – well, where do humans come from?”

“Uh, hey – Smokescreen,” Jack interrupted hastily, “any news on whether you guys can come back for a visit soon?”

The rookie seemed caught off-guard by the question, expecting the Optimus Prime discussion to go on for a lot longer, but the other two kids nodded up at the screen encouragingly and if he had a chance to stop talking to children about life and death matters he was happy to take it. “Uh… I don’t know. Everyone’s kinda busy, you guys.” The disappointed expressions made him backpedal, holding up his servos to stop any complaints Miko was about to voice. “—But that doesn’t mean they won’t make time for you. Soon. I’ll talk to them.”

“…Can’t we talk to them?”

“Sorry, Miko. When I say busy, I mean most of the Autobots aren’t even around right now. It’s just Ratchet and Knock Out, and I’m only here to keep Ultra Magnus company because they have to keep an eye on Starscream-“

“ _Ooh!_ You guys took him prisoner?” Miko stomped her foot, annoyed. “Jack, they’ve been doing _everything_ without us!”

“Um… Not exactly-“

“You guys are _terrible!”_ she whined.“You haven’t even been keeping us updated! What, did you all forget about us just because you went on an extended vaycay?” There was a waver in her voice that Smokescreen didn’t pick up, but Jack glanced across at her warningly.

“Miko,” he said, “ _Earth_ was their ‘extended vaycay’. Cybertron is their _home._ They’re trying to rebuild – you know it’s important.” When she rolled her eyes and still looked petulant, Jack stuck his hands in his pockets and mirrored Smokescreen’s apology-shrug right back at him. “She gets it,” he insisted gently, “she just… misses you. All of you. …We all do.”

Miko made a noise like a broken engine and stormed past Jack to go sulk elsewhere. “You suck _all_ the fun out of cam-calls.” The wobble was still in her voice, and Jack had a feeling he knew why she’d ducked out so quickly. He didn’t say anything.

Rafael saw the rookie Autobot shift uncomfortably, and forced a smile. “We’re okay, Smokescreen. But we wanna see the Autobots again. In _person._ …It’s different without you guys.”

The Autobot’s posture sagged a little. The human kids had taught them a lot – had taught _him_ a lot, really, but they just hadn’t found the time to consider reporting back when they’d been fighting battles and ending wars and trying to rebuild their home. Of _course_ they’d be upset. They deserved better.

He vented heavily. “Okay.” Stepping over to a console to key in a set of commands, Smokescreen gave them all a decisive nod. “We Autobots are gonna be busy for a while, and you can’t come here because the atmosphere isn’t right for you guys. But I _can_ link you up to our communication channels.” A pause, and he tilted his helm slightly, looking guilty again. “Just don’t abuse the privilege. Ratchet is probably gonna grill me for it. Raf – I’m sending you the channel information. You’ll have to patch it through from your end. I’m not sure I know what I’m doing,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Already on it,” the smallest human responded cheerfully, hopping from key to key, and addressed Jack over his shoulder without having to be asked. “The data Smokescreen’s sending will allow us to contact the Autobots from our phones using this computer link to the Nemesis as a proxy – as long as it stays online. I just have to make some modifications to the hardware. You’d better get Miko’s cell,” he added, and Jack gave a typical teenager grunt in response – one that said something along the lines of _okay but she’s in a bad mood_ – and turned to go and hunt her down.

Rafael didn’t look up to watch him go. Jack had been unusually subdued and quiet since Smokescreen told them about Optimus. With all his experience with older siblings, he’d come to recognise that kind of silence.

“Okay, I think that’s everything you need. Just try not to surprise anyone too badly. They won’t know we linked up until you start chattering in their audials.” Smokescreen smiled at the one remaining human, stepping back over to the middle of the Nemesis’ bridge and folding his arms. It felt strange to be standing where Megatron once did, the same as when he’d sat in the throne up on Darkmount. Cool, but _creepy._ He gave an involuntary shudder. “…Before I go. Raf – this sounds like a dumb question, but Miko reminded me… Do you believe in ghosts?”

Rafael tweaked his glasses with one hand, looking up from his careful keyboard-stepping and considering this carefully. “I thought you said the spark thing wasn’t like that.”

“No, no – it’s not. This is something else.” He glanced behind him, at the purple-tinted mood lighting and dark corners of the Nemesis bridge, and shrugged noncommittally back at the screen. “I just thought you might know something. You used to trawl the human data network for those paranormal sites, right?”

The young hacker continued with his slow typing, blinking once at a misstep and heading over to step on the delete button. “I was only looking for shots of you guys to wipe off the web. But I guess I read a little about ghosts too. …I don’t believe in that stuff. I like hard science.” Raf went back to key presses with his footsteps, not daring to look up, and continued. “But that doesn’t make the dark any less creepy. Knowing there’s nothing out there doesn’t stop you from thinking weird stuff.”

Smokescreen fell silent for a while, thinking it over. Rafael was young. He knew this, and he registered that it wasn’t fair to risk spooking him, but he knew the other Autobots had relied on the kid for information before. It was difficult to know how much he could ask of this kid.

He watched the screen intently, trying to phrase it innocuously enough. “I’m only asking because this ship is… kind of dark. Decepticon engineering is pretty cool, but I’m glad we’re not staying on the Nemesis forever. It’s just… Megatron did a lot of bad stuff here. Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched.”

Rafael didn’t miss a beat. “Oh,” he began cheerfully, “that’ll probably be Soundwave. You guys should probably decide what to do about him.”

“Wait - _what?”_

 

 

***

 

 

“What? You can’t just _leave!”_

Megatron ignored the angry hiss and turned away, making a point of not bothering to keep an eye on her. She couldn’t harm him if she tried. They both knew this. “I can and will do as I please, Airachnid. Do not attempt to waste any more of my time.”

Airachnid watched him stare up at the blackness of space, probably recalibrating his trajectory in his head, and stomped out the flare of panic. She was better than this. Airachnid would not _beg._ “Megatron,” she addressed him, daring herself to sound confident; “I could still be of use to you. A favour owed to someone like me is-“

“Worthless,” he finished firmly. “You are even more powerless now than you were when Soundwave banished you here.” Megatron lifted a claw and touched at the side of his helm, disabling radio for the time being. Answering it at all had been a mistake.

“I may be missing a few parts,” she tried, gesturing to her broken spider-legs as an example, “but I’m not useless. I’m just as sharp as I’ve ever been. And _more._ Unicron-“

“Unicron be ruined!” Megatron snarled suddenly, whirling around to face her. “Unicron is as powerless as gods come. Do not think to trick me into believing there’s any of his influence left in you. If _anyone_ would know the truth, it would be _me.”_ His servo swept up to his chest, gesturing to the flare-like logo carved there, and his optics narrowed.

The femme took a step back, well aware of what Megatron’s rage could do to a Cybertronian. She’d recognised the symbol, of course, the same way she knew of rare tech and obscure stories. There were things you learned, when you went freelancing off to other worlds while everyone else had no time for hobbies. Airachnid had never touched any relics with that mark. She knew better.

“But-“

Megatron didn’t let her try again. “If it will quiet you to know, Airachnid, I don’t require your or anyone else’s services any longer. Your offer has fallen on entirely deaf ears.”

She froze. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the Decepticon cause is no more.” His voice had changed tone again, now uncharacteristically quiet and – she thought – _grave._ Airachnid was becoming very aware of how much more unpredictable Megatron was. The armour wasn’t the only thing about him that was different. “Go back to whatever it was that you did after defecting. And tell any others you meet that the Decepticons have been dismissed.”

“What?” She felt herself getting angry and defensive (not afraid, never afraid) and it was no longer such an easy matter to play her cards carefully. She raised her voice, a demanding tone creeping in where she hadn’t dared use it before. “How can you expect me to do any of that if you’re going to leave me on a dead moon? I offered my allegiance, Megatron, but if that isn’t enough to barter with you-“

“I said I did not care for your allegiance,” he clarified, flashing her a sidelong glance that made her flinch involuntarily. “Whether or not I will give you a chance to get off this moon remains to be seen.”

“But-!”

“To your great luck, Airachnid, due to unforeseen events I am still working out just how far my charity will stretch. I would say that your best option,” Megatron declared, “would be to power down, conserve energon, and _cross your fingers.”_

Before she could reply, there was the heavy, grinding sound of Megatron’s transformation, and the blast of heat and energy as he powered very suddenly up into space sent her staggering another couple of steps backwards.

When the dust settled, Airachnid was left standing alone amid the half-collapsed sand constructs of the Insecticon army, seething angrily but unable to come up with anything to say other than an angry, incomprehensible scream sent skywards. Let him hear that. Let him think her useless, if he wanted. Perhaps someday she’d kill him herself!

…For now, however, there was still a large part of Airachnid that found self-preservation to be a very attractive option. Her anger temporarily abated with nothing to direct it at, she gave a discontented hiss and turned to stalk over to the high rock that had so far served as her ironic throne. High and mighty, cunning queen of the lifeless, dusty Cybertronian moon! Was that poetic enough a note to go out on?

 _No,_ she decided, and seated herself there with one leg elegantly crossed over the other despite knowing there was no one to watch. Megatron was clearly no longer interested in controlling anyone, but she understood she had very little choice other than to do as she was advised. Luckily, Airachnid was used to waiting games.


	6. bridging gaps

“We need to know how to deal with this… Soundwave thing.”

“You’ll need to ask Ratchet. Opening two groundbridges on this plane is easy, but targeting the Shadowzone is gonna be a lot more difficult. He did it last time.” Rafael glanced up, double-checking that his teacher hadn’t turned from what he was writing on the board, and hissed a quick dismissal into the phone. “Listen, I can’t talk right now. I’ll get in trouble. Just ask Ratchet.”

“But-“

“Sorry, Bee. Bye!”

He snapped the phone shut and dropped it into his bag just as his teacher turned to investigate the noise, and quickly folded his hands on his desk and twiddled his thumbs innocently. The one good thing about being a straight-A student was how much trust adults were willing to place in him, but when he realised that carried over to giant robot people and members of the government as well, it had become a bit of a burden. Rafael was no stranger to high expectations. But he was starting to learn he had the space to draw a line. The Autobots had asked a lot of him, and he wasn’t an idiot – he knew they felt guilty. But that didn’t make it any easier for him.

Saying _no_ had become a necessity lately. Not all the time. Just… when he needed space.

The muffled sound of his phone vibrating in his bag made him close his eyes for a second and sighed, willing himself to ignore it – but Rafael was too used to the possibility of some grave danger requiring his expertise, something immediate and pressing that he had to respond to _now,_ and it took him all of five seconds’ delay before his hand dug past the laptop and the pens and pencils and oversized notebook and grabbed his phone, flipping it open as he leaned over to sneak a glance down at the screen.

_Doc busy with scream machine. Need your help. Sorry. -B_

Rafael brought his phone into his lap, hiding it beneath the desk, and tapped out a reply one-handed. He kept his eyes trained on the board as the teacher attempted to educate them all about mitochondria, pretending to take notes with his free hand (so far he’d produced three doodles of Bee, one of Cybertron, and one of Ratchet. He was greatly hoping no one would ask to copy his work).

_Busy with school! Just lock SS somewhere so R can help I don’t care I’m busy!!!_

A couple of minutes later, he got his reply.

_You okay? -B_

Rafael waited a minute longer before raising his hand and waggling it a little to attract the teacher’s attention.

“Hey – can I be excused? I don’t feel so good.”

“Mr. Esquivel, you’ve been finding reasons to get out of class for months. Your attendance is worryingly low. On this occasion I-“

“I already know this stuff. I’ll write an essay on it if you want – I just _really_ don’t feel well.” He was already halfway to the door, well aware that all eyes in the classroom were firmly on him, and the look on the teacher’s face made him cringe inwardly. “I’ll catch up later. I promise!”

As the door shut out the teacher’s spluttered response, Rafael hurried to put distance between himself and the classroom, flipping his phone up to his ear with the dial tone already going off.

“…Hey.”

“Raf! I thought you said you were busy?”

“I made time,” he said carefully. “And I’m okay. Sorry for snapping at you, Bee. I’ve just been a little stressed out lately. Listen,” he continued quickly, before his friend could ask him any difficult questions, “maybe we can work this out remotely. Can you operate the hangar groundbridge from there? I think Ratchet set up a remote connection before he left.”

There was silence on the line for a few long seconds. When Bumblebee spoke, he’d lowered his voice a little; Raf assumed that meant there were others with him.

“Are you skipping school again?”

He sighed, rolling his eyes. “No. Not… _technically…_ I already know everything that was gonna be in the lesson today.”

“ _Raf.”_

“I’m fine! Honest. I said I’d write up what I missed – it’s no big deal.” He changed hands, pushing the school door open ahead of him and turning off onto the road. Probably best to get somewhere private if he was going to bridge there. Things were difficult, now that they’d all been rehomed outside of Jasper. The old town was still a wreck, but apparently Jack had been helping with the cleanup operation since it was mostly government-run. Rafael didn’t envy him much. There were better ways to earn kudos as a junior agent that didn’t involve moving wreckage in the Nevada sun.

“…I’ll try and get you that bridge. Just don’t keep skipping class, okay? Just because Miko does it doesn’t mean you should.”

“I’ll talk to you soon, Bee.”

 

 

***

 

 

“Left primary.” Knock Out added something to the datapad he was holding as the seeker tapped his left pointer finger against the medical berth. If Starscream was as concerned as he was about the slow reaction time, he didn’t say anything. Yet. “Right minor.”

Starscream lifted his right arm, waggling his digits with a deadpan glare on his faceplate. He didn’t mind the tests so much. A careful physical exam of everything that had been broken was… necessary, he understood that even if the dull aches and digital anaesthetic were making it hard to think straight. “What about my wings?”

Knock Out looked away, fiddling with the datapad. “Mm. About that. We thought it might be better if your wings stay _off_ for a while.”

“What?!”

“Easy, Starscream - you’re still in quite a state. Don’t strain yourself.” Knock Out held up his servos like he was trying to corral some skittish Earth animal, intent on keeping Starscream on the medical berth this time. He had an annoying habit of wandering off, and the doctor doubted it would go down too well with the Autobots if he left the medbay prematurely. “I know how important your wings are to you, but let me put it to you gently: no one around here trusts you as far as they could throw you.”

Starscream flashed him a curled-lip look that he used to reserve for incompetent Vehicons, and slumped back against the berth (probably not completely on purpose). “The feeling is _entirely_ mutual. When we get out of here-“

_“We?”_

Starscream gave a weak laugh. To his credit, he at least managed to meet Knock Out’s bright-eyed, interrogative look head-on. The doctor had a way of looming over his patients, but Starscream had been there, done that. “Ah… well, I thought you might want to _leave._ Serving under the Autobots is surely quite the insult to your intelligence, after all,” he explained carefully.

Knock Out didn’t answer immediately. One half of him wanted to laugh, but the more medically-oriented half of him recognised a problem when he saw it. In the end, he settled for a disinterested shrug and went back to updating the datapad. It wasn’t worth it. “Hm,” he answered, managing to make the noise sound judgemental. “No. (Move your left foot.)”

Starscream glanced down, testing the joint above his heel obediently but making it quite clear by the expression on his face that this conversation was _not_ over. “What do you mean, _no?”_

“I mean _no._ I joined the winning team, we _won,_ and I have no reason to go driving off with a washed-up air commander with clipped wings and delusions of grandeur.” He tilted his helm on one side and treated Starscream to his signature mad-scientist grin – and then flicked back to neutral and glanced back down at the screen. _You’re wasting your time._

“The war isn’t over just because Megatron said it’s over!” Starscream snapped suddenly, and Knock Out took a strategic step sideways to avoid being grabbed. He had wised up to Starscream’s impulsivity, and didn’t bother looking up from the datapad. “As soon as I get out of here, I’m rallying the Decepticon army. With Megatron gone-“

“Starscream!” Knock Out interrupted, surprising himself with how aggressive it sounded. His temper was unusually short. “You are _aware_ that when the rest of us switch sides, we don’t always come crawling back? And not _everyone_ is as fixated on this war as you are. The Vehicons were tired of being cannon fodder _decades_ before everyone started squabbling over Earth.” He paused, his processor catching up with his vocaliser and deciding that he’d already overstepped a line. Whatever line there _was._ Knock Out wasn’t used to speaking his mind, not when it wasn’t about risks to his finish or about Earth vehicles or other arbitrary ( _important,_ but arbitrary) things like that. Anyway, Starscream was staring at him and for once it was hard to tell what mood that had put him in. He looked away, focusing once more on the datapad. “Besides, I for one am happy with the way things are going. The Autobots have a game plan. What do _you_ have?”

The jet reluctantly let the tension drop out of him. He’d been planning on giving Knock Out something to really shout about, maybe claw his finish off just for being so _insolent,_ but something about that last question silenced him. He fought to hunt down the right word to throw at him in response; irritatingly, his processor came up blank.

He picked out another part of Knock Out’s speech to address, instead.

“Happy?” …His cautious tone seemed to make Knock Out freeze. Starscream’s optics widened as he attempted to figure out what this meant. “Did the Autobots run a magnet over your helm? Who, exactly, is the delusional one here?”

Knock Out shot him a bewildered look, just for a split second, but the more he considered what he’d said, the more he realised a real answer wasn’t meant for Starscream’s audials. And that he didn’t regret what he’d said at all. “You know, Starscream, you should have stuck around for their Prime’s speech. Perhaps you’d have learned a thing or two.”

He reached over to tap something on a medical display, and instantly the medical berth snapped heavy cuffs over Starscream’s wrists and shins. Ignoring the air commander’s shocked squirming, Knock Out headed for the exit.

“What are you doing? You can’t leave me here! I – I have rights, Knock Out, you traitor-!”

“Well,” Knock Out declared loudly, pressing two fingers to the side of his helm; “I’d say our patient will be making a full recovery – provided I don’t kill him first.” He stopped at the door, turning to flash Starscream a smug smirk. “No, no – he’s no trouble. He’s in sound recharge, in fact. My advice is to leave him alone for a few hours. …The bridge? Right away, _doctor.”_

“Knock Out!” Starscream snarled, his less-damaged wrist rattling uselessly in its restraint. “Knock Out, get back here and let me go! I _demand-“_

The door pounded shut behind the ex-‘con, and Starscream blinked once at it before letting out the infuriated scream that had been building for a while. On the other side of the door, Knock Out’s confident smirk vanished and was replaced immediately with a grim line as he set off for the bridge. It just wasn’t fun to taunt him any more.

 

 

***

 

 

Jack waited for what felt like an age. Had anyone even picked up? Maybe the phone was just glitching since Raf tampered with it, even though that didn’t seem likely. He almost cancelled the call when her voice finally rang through, faint and moody.

“Why are you calling my host parents’ house, you weirdo?”

He fumbled with the phone as he hurried to bring it back up to his ear. “Oops – hey, Miko. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I haven’t seen you around the base lately. Raf finished fixing your cell phone, and…” He paused, running a hand through his hair from back to front. Something about her sounded off. “You’re okay, right?”

“I’m fine. Just don’t feel like hanging around a dumb old hangar right now.”

Jack frowned. That didn’t sound like Miko at all. Still, what was he supposed to do? Did she want space, or was she just being stubborn? There was no way she’d ever normally pass up an invitation to be around their secret base, not even when their Cybertronian friends weren’t there.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well. Okay. It’s just… well, we have your cell,” he repeated, feeling a bit redundant. “You can call Bulkhead.”

There was another long silence on Miko’s end of the call, and then some faint shuffling. “Gimme five minutes. Then bridge me through from the usual place, okay?”

“I- okay. Text me when you’re ready…” He brought his phone down to look at the screen, knowing she’d already hung up. Sighing, he flipped it shut and headed back over to the couch where Rafael was sitting with his laptop. “She said five minutes.”

Rafael glanced up at him in acknowledgement, reaching up to adjust his glasses like he did whenever he was thinking. For a second it looked as if he was going to say something, but the words fizzled out when there was a tinny screech from the laptop. He tapped a finger on the volume button, turning it down a few notches.

“Everything okay over there?” he asked.

“Whoops. Sorry, guys,” Smokescreen responded, the screeching continuing in the background. “We figured it’d be best to move a few things out of the way first. Metal crates. You can put us on mute for a klick or two, but I’ll let you know when we’re ready.”

“Gotcha.” Rafael leaned back on the sofa, jabbing the mute button as he turned his head slightly to address Jack. “Do you think everything’s okay with Miko?”

Jack flopped down beside him, heaving a long sigh. “I don’t know, Raf. I guess so. She said she was fine, it’s just… I think it’s finally sinking in, you know?”

Raf glanced across at him properly. “What is?”

“Just… everyone being on Cybertron. I just… I don’t know if they made any plans to come back.”

“They’ll visit,” Raf said quickly. “Ratchet said he’d stay on Earth. He’ll come back. He’s only still on Cybertron to make sure Ultra Magnus gets better.”

The teenager shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

Rafael watched him carefully for a moment, his own expression curiously neutral despite how sullen Jack was being. “This is about how they didn’t tell us about Optimus.”

Jack started suddenly, flashing him a defensive look. “What? No, no-! No. It’s not that. They were…busy.” A beat. “They’re still busy. And… they’re gonna be busy for a while,” he added. “I mean, they were _there_ the whole time, when everything was happening, and we weren’t. We’re completely out of the loop. It’s like–”

“Like we’re being ignored because we’re not their biggest problem at the moment. Like we should make a fuss so that they’ll notice us again.” Rafael turned back to stare blankly at the screen, sliding a little further down in his seat. He could feel Jack staring at him. “My family is pretty big, Jack. I know how it goes.”

“Is that why you skipped school?”

Rafael frowned. “No! I skipped school because the Autobots needed me. Could _you_ hunt down and decrypt the old groundbridge history file and work out which coordinates were from the _one_ time Ratchet used it for the Shadowzone?” Exasperated, but not willing to argue over it, Raf waved his hand. “I skip school because I’m needed, not because I want to act out. I already promised my teacher I’d turn in extra homework to cover for my absence. And he’s letting me do it. Even if he’s not happy about it.”

Jack was still watching him. There was a lot about Rafael he didn’t understand, apparently, and he was beginning to realise what point the younger boy was trying to make. “You have a lot of stuff going on right now, huh?”

Raf shrugged. “So does Miko. You should talk to her when she gets here.” Jack made a grumpy noise. Rafael’s response was snippy. “Hey, you’re supposed to be the responsible one. I’m _thirteen.”_

“And a quarter,” Jack mimicked – then froze.

“And a _half.”_

“No, I mean… thirteen? And a half?”

“You’re older, too, remember. You turned seventeen three months ago.” He glanced up. “You _do_ remember?”

Jack rolled his eyes and slumped back down in his seat. “Of course I remembered _mine._ And Miko made a huge deal out of hers. She was talking about it weeks in advance. …I’m sorry, Raf.”

The younger boy shrugged and went back to watching the screen. “It’s fine. My mom got me a cake. I was gonna save some for you guys, but… well. Big family,” he said again, a faint smile crossing his face.

Jack glanced across at him, studying his face. Raf wasn’t much for talking about his family. None of them had, really. It had just factored in as one of those things secret agents didn’t talk about – or, maybe more likely, they’d just not considered it each other’s business. His own mother had gotten involved, but he still wondered just how much anyone knew about anything else.

“I guess this stuff is pretty important to you,” he remarked curiously. Rafael’s smile widened slightly, but Jack had already glanced down at the time in the corner of the screen. “Oh, right. Miko. I’ll go activate the groundbridge.”

“Tell her to come up here. Maybe she’ll want to stay and watch.” Rafael tapped the button to un-mute the call, raising his voice a little to make sure he was heard. “Are you guys ready yet?”

Smokescreen’s voice cut back in a moment later, thankfully no longer accompanied by the metallic sounds of the storage room being cleared. “I think so.”

“Then I’ll set things up. Who else is with you?”

“Uhh… Me, Arcee, Bulk and Bee. And I have Ratchet on the other line. He’s kinda busy, though.”

Rafael nodded to himself approvingly. “Good. Soundwave is strong. You’ll need all the backup you can get if he turns sour. But just remember – you’re not there to fight him.”

“We know, Raf.”

 

 

***

 

 

One of the few upsides to being possessed by an all-powerful entity, apparently, was the arsenal you were left with afterwards. Megatron was growing used to navigating with a superluminal drive active; his aim had to be precise, and he had to keep his wits about him on long trips, but even those didn’t take all that much time.

As he transformed and thundered down onto a peak just north of the Canadian border (starting a small landslide in the process), Megatron noted the extra weight would take some getting used to as well. The upgrades to his chassis were ungainly, and there was an uncomfortable rust getting into a lot of his plating that he understood was a side-effect of lying dead underwater for a while. Unicron had not cared much for the body as long as it was _functional._

He took a moment to do something he didn’t do often, and certainly not in view of anyone else: he stretched, ignoring the uncomfortable scraping of partly-rusted armour and the rough feeling in his joints that he wasn’t sure whether to attribute to general altmode stiffness or _rigor mortis._ Megatron rolled his shoulders to finish, tilting his helm from side to side. It would pass.

Venting quietly, Megatron began a somewhat graceless scramble down the mountainside, dropping over the edge of an overhang and landing with a metallic thud at the entrance to a mine. He straightened up, batting a couple of times at his plates before registering that the strange gold-dusted edging was _supposed_ to be there, and stepped forwards. It was strange how little appearances mattered to him, now that he wasn’t using his to play figurehead.

“Vehicons,” he ventured loudly, the cavernous mine entrance amplifying his voice; “come forward. I know Earth’s pitiful military could not have dealt with all of you.”

For a minute or two, a faint rattle of falling pebbles in the gloom of the mine ahead of him was the only response. But Megatron had learned to be patient.

As the sound of footsteps became audible, his optics refocused, another tweak from Unicron letting him switch through a couple of different sound and heat detection modes to make out the vague shapes of a handful of Vehicons making their way out into the light.

“…Lord Megatron?”

“We heard you were—“ One of them slapped the other.

“That’s not Megatron, you idiot. Megatron’s not gold.”

“What? Nah, that’s more like, uhh, bronze. Rusty bronze or something.”

Despite his changed mindset, Megatron found himself rolling his eyes exasperatedly at their incompetence. That, at least, was familiar. _“Quiet,_ you fools.”

“Scrap, it _is_ him!” someone hissed, and all of a sudden the five… six Vehicons lurking in the mine entrance scrambled to stand in formation in front of him, the terrified muttering dying down as soon as they were in place.

He regarded them all coldly before simply holding up his hand and waving it once.

“We can forego protocol. I am not here to evaluate your obedience.” He paused, watching them shift uncomfortably but not quite break rank just yet. They still feared him. He was surprised to find that he didn’t care much either way. “I am here to ask that you pass on a message to any other Decepticons still on-world. You are to spread the word via any means available. Am I being clear?”

They watched him carefully, still too well-trained to dare speak out; Megatron turned away, folding his servos together behind his back. The new chassis made it a little awkward, but he was starting to feel that the extra plating would be something he could get used to. With time.

“Tell the others that the war we have been fighting is at an end.” He held out one hand illustratively. “That the Decepticons are finished. And that anyone caught still operating under the Deception badge, or the ideals it held, will answer to me.”

“…Sir?”

“If you are about to ask any questions regarding my commitment, you may wish to recall what happened to the last group of Vehicons who thought it would be a good idea to celebrate this planet’s first day of April on-board the Nemesis. _I am not fond of jokes.”_

There was a faint sound behind him as a couple of the mineworkers reacted quietly to the memory and reminded those who weren’t there. Megatron ignored them.

“My lord,” one of them piped up after a while, “what about the Nemesis? And the higher-ranking officers?”

He was joined by a small chorus from the other Vehicons. “What about you?”

“What about _us?”_

“What about Cybertron?”

Megatron blinked, glancing thoughtfully off to the left. It was only to be expected that the thought of being leaderless was… daunting to some. If they had questions, he would answer. But he would not _stay._

He turned halfway to address them, suddenly wary of how much space his spiked shoulder plating took up. He had always been built to be a gladiator, but this was something else. “I will not be around to give you orders. Cybertron has been restored; any who wish to return there will have to seek out the only functioning spacebridge left on this world. It belonged to the Autobots, and it may be prudent to assume it is still monitored by their human allies.” He paused to think, optics dropping to study the ground. The mineworkers were still watching him, though thankfully had gone silent to let him speak. It was strange to know Decepticon obedience still held firm even after it had been rendered irrelevant. “If anyone plans to stay on planet Earth, be aware the human government will not take kindly to your presence.”

It took a while of awkward silence and stillness before Megatron registered that they were still awaiting some kind of dismissal. Had he not been clear?

“Go. You are not Deceptions any longer.” He felt… awkward. Megatron waved a clawed servo at them stiffly. “Disperse.”

“…Sir?”

“Speak.” A pause. “If you wish it.” Some small part of Megatron was rolling its optics at the rest of him. This was hardly familiar to him.

The Vehicon shifted in place, glancing at his teammates for backup that didn’t come. “We… do not know what to do next.”

“That,” Megatron declared confidently, “is not my problem any more.” The rest of the conversation may have been difficult, but that had felt about right. He stepped away, deciding enough was enough – they seemed convinced, if a little confused; they could work it out for themselves. _Not his problem._ It was a liberating thought. “Oh – and one last command from your ex-Lord.” Megatron glanced back at them and held up his pointer digit for emphasis. “If any of you encounter ex-Commander Starscream trying to revive the Decepticon cause,” he declared, pausing only for a moment to double-check his verdict (and immediately deciding he was certain), “kill him.”

Megatron let his hand drop back to his side, turning away and taking a sudden leap forwards from the mountainside. His T-cog jump-started the transformation with a heavy shudder, and the sudden blast from his jets scorched a tree into cinders before he sped off into the distance.

The Vehicons stood in silence for a while, watching the shape of their old leader grow smaller and finally curve around to disappear behind another mountain.

“Scrap,” one of them said.

“Well. Where is the Autobot spacebridge, anyhow?”

“No idea. Anybody?”

“Not me. Steve?”

“…I think we’re gonna have to get arrested.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the continued delay of Soundwave's appearance - I'll get to it soon, promise! In the meantime, this chapter has mostly been about the kids, with a light peppering of Megatron and Knock Out. Sooner or later I will go more in-depth with Starscream too. All these loose ends! I may be making more of them than I'm tying up at the moment, but I'm having fun doing it so morally I win. Hope this thing is still holding up to par!


	7. negotiations

Business as usual. It almost felt comforting, to be working like this again with Bee’s voice prompting him every so often for information – the familiarity was keeping him calm; despite rumours of Ratchet’s annoyance at knowing a comms link had been established without his knowledge, Rafael didn’t regret using the information Smokescreen had given him. It was nice to talk to Bumblebee again, even if it was only over their work.

“I want to be sure. What’s the weather like over there?”

“Uh… Cybertron doesn’t really have much in the way of weather, Raf.”

“It has a temperature,” Raf pointed out, and waited.

“…Forty-seven point three.”

Raf glanced at his notes, wedged to one side of the screen so that he could keep typing. “Good. That matches. More proof we have the right coordinates, at least. Pulling it off last time was easy – I just had to activate a bridge and aim it anywhere – it didn’t matter, because the reaction between the two was all we needed,” he explained, “but pinpointing one to go directly _into_ the Shadowzone… there’s a lot of room for error. The magnetism is all backwards. I have to juggle three sets of coordinates at once… Ratchet was right. It’s difficult.”

Jack leaned over his shoulder, and Raf did his best to ignore him. Curiosity was fine, as long as he didn’t talk. He knew his explanations sometimes left the others more confused than before, but then they were often more for his own benefit than theirs.

“Can you definitely do it?” Rafael knew he’d never heard Bee’s voice before it had been fixed, but it was still strangely familiar – like he’d been listening to it all along through the beeps and whirs. There were certain things (very few) that Raf didn’t bother to question. Understanding Bee had become one of them.

“Does level eight have an invisible speed boost on the third corner?” There was a noticeable pause. “It does, Bee. That’s how I kept beating you.”

“You little sneak!”

Raf smiled at the soft chuckle from Bee, picturing him shaking his head in disbelief. Good to know he hadn’t forgotten their gaming sessions. Nothing had really changed, even so far away from each other.

Back to the point, though. “I’ve finished calibrating the Shadowzone exit point. I think that’s everything. Sending the data now.” He hit the button, and leaned back to watch the transfer bar fill up. “Do you want to keep me on for the rest? I don’t know if there’s anything more I can help with.”

The ‘sent’ beep made Jack jump, and he withdrew sheepishly. Rafael settled a little more comfortably on the couch.

“No,” Bumblebee replied. “You’ve done all you can; it’s up to us from here. If there are any problems, I’ll call, so maybe don’t wander too far from your computer… but we should be fine. I trust your calculations. Thanks, Raf.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Sorry to make you skip school,” he tried again. Raf heard the tentative undertone, and hurried to answer before that could turn into any difficult questions.

“It’s okay.” He quickly tapped at the button to close the comm link. Some part of him wished Bee had asked him to stay on the line, but he understood his friend needed to concentrate. When Soundwave came through, the Autobots would all need their wits about them.

“When can I call Bulk?”

Raf turned to look at her automatically. He’d forgotten for a moment that Miko was even _there._ Which, if he was honest, didn’t bode well. Miko Nakadai was _never_ quiet. “…We have to wait. Soundwave is dangerous. If we called in the middle of that, we could be a big distraction.”

Miko made a sarcastic blabbing motion with her mouth, and drew her feet up onto the couch to rest her chin on her knees. She’d been in a bad mood since she got here, but there was barely any of her usual energy behind it. Rafael watched her for a moment, looking away quickly when her eyes flashed him an accusing look.

“What are _you_ looking at?”

“Nothing,” he said, maybe a little too quickly for her taste.

Miko gave an irritated growl and distracted herself with her phone, flipping it open and navigating to the icon that would put her in contact with Bulkhead despite knowing she couldn’t press it just yet. A moment of hovering over it and she clicked her phone shut. In another minute she’d do the same thing. She’d been repeating it for the past half an hour.

“Why am I even here?” she muttered sullenly.

Jack frowned over at her, and after a second or two he decided he’d just about had enough. “Gee, you’ve got a point, Miko,” he snapped, “why _are_ you here? All you’ve done since you got here is whine. And you know what? It’s pretty transparent.”

“Um, actually, you don’t get it at all, _Jack._ Stop acting like you didn’t invite me in the first place.”

Rafael’s typing ground down to a halt, not that either of the others noticed.

“I _know_ I invited you. And Raf linked up your phone for you. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re trying to be _nice.”_

 _“I_ wanted to stay _home!_ You’re the one who tricked me into coming here just for my stupid phone! What’s the use in being _able_ to call Bulkhead if I’m not even allowed to _do_ it?” Miko was beginning to raise her voice, and Jack immediately matched her.

“It’s been half an hour, Miko! What, are we suddenly bad company or something? Just because the Autobots aren’t here doesn’t mean we stopped being your friends! Aren’t we good enough? What, not – not giant robot enough for you?”

“Maybe not, Jack! Maybe you’re not suddenly king of everything now the Autobots aren’t around!”

 _“Shut up!”_ Raf slammed his laptop shut and stood up suddenly, ripping out the cords connecting it to the hangar computer with a little more force than necessary. “You two never _stop,_ do you? This is just like the first time we got dragged along on a mission, and you two haven’t learned _anything!”_ They were staring at him, fumbling for explanations or apologies or (he _dared_ them) more arguments, but Rafael didn’t let them speak. “You miss the Autobots because they’re like family, but you won’t treat each other the same way. You both stopped acting normal the moment you heard about Optimus – you can’t just pretend it didn’t happen!”

“Raf, this isn’t about Optimus-“

“Yes it is! _Yes it is!”_ Rafael yelled, feeling his eyes sting. They’d never really seen him cry, which was an interesting thing to realise right as it was happening, but that didn’t stop him either. “My mom calls it _closure_ – it’s what you get when you think back on all the bad stuff, because then you can make it all fit in your head and it doesn’t get you all messed up. But we never got that! Everything that happened was on Cybertron, a million light years away. All we _have_ is talking about it. But you guys won’t even do that!”

Miko seemed to have shrunk back in her seat. Jack was looking away, casting a dour glare at the floor, but Raf would bet his laptop these things meant they were listening. _Good._ It was about time someone listened.

“Raf,” Jack tried again, more gently this time but still with a gruff edge that Rafael didn’t care for. “Of course we care about – what happened to Optimus,” he said haltingly; “but that doesn’t mean…”

“Yes it does. You know, this is _just_ how my family acted when my grandpa got sick. The ‘bots treat me like an adult, and other humans treat me like a baby. But I’m not either. A-and I’m sick of it.” Rafael found his voice failing him, sniffed and suddenly rubbed at his eye with the heel of his palm. He turned and headed for the steps, his laptop tucked under one arm. “I need s-some air,” he said, very quietly.

Rafael heard the dull thud of a punch being landed and Jack barking _ow_ and Miko hissing _I can’t believe you made him cry, idiot!_ and he pointedly ignored all of it. The dusty desert air outside wouldn’t make him feel any better, but maybe there’d be space to think.

He wanted Bee.

 

 

***

 

 

“Whoa, whoa!”

“Back up! I’ve got ‘im!”

“Bulk, _look out!”_

Things had deteriorated much faster than anyone had anticipated. It seemed it was always possible to underestimate what should be a simple mission, and the mistake had been made again.

The small team was scattered to the corners of the room, Arcee trapped under Bulkhead’s weight after a purple tentacle had tripped him and then slammed down on his chest, electrocuting them both. Another had Bumblebee pinned firmly against a wall, still struggling; Smokescreen remained the only one standing between their owner and the door.

He assumed a fighting stance, bouncing a little on his heels to test his balance and trying to shut out the sight of his teammates in order to focus. They hadn’t been expecting this kind of resistance. “Stop! We’re not here to fight you!” he called out, though he was fairly certain his target wasn’t interested in anything he had to say. He tried the calm approach instead, unable to stop himself taking a step back as the sinister footsteps began to head in his direction. “We got you out. We wanted to help! You don’t have to do this – the war is over!”

Soundwave kept advancing. Behind him, the unattended groundbridge still cast an irregular light over the Nemesis bridge.

“It’s true. Megatron doesn’t want to continue the war any more.” Soundwave took another step forwards, undeterred. Smokescreen took another one back and quickly held up his palms in surrender. If Soundwave fought, he knew who would win. _C’mon – use your head, rookie. Convince him!_ “It’s over! That’s why we opened the Shadowzone bridge. We wanted to get you out. We just have a few questions a-and then you’ll be free to go. We don’t want to fight you.” The footsteps continued, until Soundwave was practically looming over him. Smokescreen willed himself not to flinch back. “Please… We just want to talk!” He sounded a lot more desperate than he’d expected.

…However it had come across, it seemed to be enough to make Soundwave halt. There was a short pause, and then –

_THE DECEPTICONS ARE NO MORE._

Megatron’s voice, this time.

Smokescreen lowered his servos an inch or two, a curious frown crossing his faceplate. “You heard him. You were _there._ …So why are you still fighting?” Silence. Soundwave didn’t let anyone move, his arm slowly raising towards the rookie Autobot’s neck (his aim was slightly off for a second before a last-minute correction – was there something wrong with him?) “I don’t understand. If you know the Decepticons are finished, why are you still fighting us?”

The door behind him slid open, and a familiar – if _tired_ – voice cut through the silence Soundwave refused to fill. “Because Soundwave is loyal to Megatron, not the Decepticons. Stand down, soldier. I have a few words for you before you wipe the floor with my team.”

Smokescreen turned quickly to confirm what he already knew, his optics widening in shock. “Ultra Magnus! I thought you were still-?” He cut himself off, reading the stern look he was being given, and quickly hopped to attention off to one side to give him space. “…Sir.”

Satisfied, Ultra Magnus stepped forwards. _Shakily._ The claw that had replaced his hand gripped the door frame, steadying him. “The good doctor gave me permission to leave sickbay when I explained my reasoning,” he explained, and managed to step forwards and put himself into a respectable stance, uncomfortably aware that Smokescreen was tensed to spring and catch him if the need arose. “I believe Soundwave will find reason to listen to what I have to say.”

_ULTRA MAGNUS. YOU ARE NO OPTIMUS PRIME._

“Nor are you a Megatron,” Magnus responded firmly. Soundwave froze. “Which is why I would like to speak to you. I believe we can bring each other up to speed. See… optic-to-visor, if you will.”

“Sir! You’re in no condition to face him!”

“It looks as though _no one_ is in any condition to face Soundwave,” Ultra Magnus pointed out, not taking his eyes off Soundwave. The Decepticon stared back, his visor still blank. The old commander was not deterred. “Which brings me to my next point. If you will release my teammates, I will be sure to have them evacuate the bridge so that we may speak in private. On my honour. But I believe you have every reason to listen to what I have to say.”

The Autobots stared at him from their incapacitated positions, glancing at one another in disbelief. Did he really feel confident in speaking to Soundwave alone? And did he really think Soundwave would buy it?

_OPTIC-TO-VISOR._

Soundwave’s tentacles loosened their grip on the pinned Autobots as he replayed Magnus’ sentence, hovering over them only for a moment like some silent threat before snaking away and disappearing into Soundwave’s chassis.

_IN PRIVATE._

“…Autobots.”

After they got to their feet, Bulkhead offering his hand to a disgruntled Arcee, the single word from Magnus was all it took. With Optimus gone, Ultra Magnus was – by technicality – the highest authority they had. They still had a lot to work out after Optimus’ passing, but in the end each of them trusted his second in command, and their old misgivings were forgotten.

On his way past, Bumblebee glanced up and met Ultra Magnus’ gaze, and said nothing. The door slid shut behind him.

“Well, then. It’s as Arcee said: I’m no threat to you in my current state. If you were going to rip out my spark, I believe you would have done it by now. I’m assuming that means you’re willing to talk – or, at least, to listen.”

Soundwave remained silent. After a moment, he turned, heading back down to the front end of the bridge. For a moment, Ultra Magnus considered the possibility that he might simply walk back into the groundbridge and disappear forever, but a calculated turn took him to the controls. A flip of a switch, and the green portal whirled shut. He understood a groundbridge’s drain on energon better than anyone.

Magnus followed slowly. Manoeuvring with a limp in such a heavy chassis was an interesting experience, but nothing he hadn’t weathered before. He’d also noticed Soundwave was doing the same, or at least favouring his balance. The Decepticon had used nothing but his wires to fight the other Autobots, opting to keep both feet firmly on the floor, and Ultra Magnus was dubious.

“I’m aware of how you came to be trapped in the Shadowzone. And I have my suspicions about the effects of the gravitational flux on your systems, though it would require a full medical examination to make certain.” Soundwave seemed to be ignoring him, tapping something out on the Nemesis computers. Manually. “I’d like you to be aware that we have two available medics on our team, should you need…”

 _SCRAP THIS! SOUNDWAVE IS NO ORDINARY CYBERTRONIAN, INSIDE OR OUT – SO I WOULD STRONGLY SUGGEST_ OPENING HIM UP _SO WE CAN HAVE A FIRST-HAND LOOK AT THE INFORMATION RECORDED ON HIS DRIVES._

Soundwave turned to fix the Autobot with a blank, yet somehow _pointed_ stare. Ultra Magnus narrowed his eyes. He didn’t recognise the event, which made it easy to assume he hadn’t been there at the time; Ratchet’s angered voice, however, was unmistakeable.

“…I see. Then perhaps Doctor Knock Out?”

Soundwave seemed to be ignoring him, busy navigating his slender digits deftly across the Decepticon keyboard. He turned, gesturing expectantly to the screen as the words ‘Cortical Patch Record #38’ appeared in the corner.

 _“The Decepticons deserve a strong,_ alert _leader.”_ Starscream’s voice. This was his memory, then, despite Knock Out’s face being dead centre.

 _“One who would require a loyal second in command,”_ he prompted, flashing a hopeful grin.

There was a sinister chuckle from Starscream. _“A candidate would have to_ earn _that post – by making a strong case to said ‘eyes and ears’.”_

 _“A case for showing mercy,_ Lord _Starscream?”_

Soundwave tapped a button, and the display froze on Knock Out’s implicit smirk.

Ultra Magnus could connect the dots from there.

“…Understood. There is no reason for you to trust either.” He went quiet for a moment, optics flicking back and forth between the screen and Soundwave’s blank visor as he quickly came up with an alternative. “Then I believe Shockwave is somewhere on Cybertron; it should prove easy enough to locate _him,_ if you would find his scientific approach acceptable in lieu of trusting our medicine.”

Soundwave seemed to consider it – or at least opted to stand there watching him instead of playing any valid reply clips. Eerie to some, perhaps, but Ultra Magnus didn’t plan on letting Soundwave’s lack of response bother him.

He forged on. “We can work out the details after this negotiation,” he offered. “As for our end of the bargain, I ask only that you grant us full access to the Nemesis files. Decepticon plans and blueprints would be most welcome in order to accelerate Cybertron’s reconstruction. Your faction had some… very sound engineering. Having to decrypt all of it by hand is getting in the way of our work.” He paused for a moment, instinctively waiting to make sure his words sank in, but Soundwave wasn’t one to acknowledge anything posed to him by an Autobot. “I’m willing to listen to whatever you would ask in return.”

Soundwave tapped a couple of keys without bothering to look at what he was doing. The Nemesis’ main display changed again, this time to a location monitor. The display was glitching quite a bit, the data somewhat corrupted when the not-quite-Megatron’s life signal had jumped unexpectedly back online along with more dark energon than the system knew what to do with, but it was clear enough what Soundwave was after when his visor lit up with a question mark.

Ultra Magnus met Soundwave’s unreadable stare unflinchingly. This was why he had come to greet him personally. This, at least, was what he was good for.

“We don’t currently know Megatron’s location,” he began, and held up his intact hand when Soundwave tensed to leave. “However. Though the other Autobots may not think it wise, I would be happy to provide you with that information as soon as it becomes available. They inform me he is no longer a threat. Meanwhile _you_ are no longer a prisoner of war, and you will not be held back should you wish to make your own attempt to seek out your commanding officer.”

Soundwave did nothing in the way of relaxing, but he did tilt his helm forwards slightly in some semblance of a nod.

SOUNDWAVE IS LOYAL TO MEGATRON.

“As I am loyal to Optimus.” He nodded back. “After the exodus, I followed him through the stars for vorns. And I would do it again,” he added earnestly.

For a long moment, the two Cybertronians simply stared at each other. Whether it was in some kind of strange mutual understanding, or just Soundwave ignoring Ultra Magnus altogether, wasn’t clear to Magnus – and perhaps not to Soundwave, either. Eventually, the ex-Decepticon simply turned back to the Nemesis console, and a couple of wires extended from beneath his plates to hook into the system.

The screen showed a calibration display – being knocked into the Shadowzone had severed his link with the Nemesis, and he needed a moment to link back up – and then there was a deep, resonant hum from within the walls of the ship as Soundwave temporarily took back control.

When the screen flickered again, this time it was to scroll past pages and pages of passwords; this shifted to a corner of the screen, making room for a window showing a series of files and folders being recovered from their hidden locations. As Ultra Magnus watched, Soundwave’s attentions split from there to every other locked or secret file on board, and methodically began sorting through encryptions.

The last item to appear was a document, being written in real-time. Ultra Magnus stepped forwards to read it when Soundwave pointed at it with one hand, not needing to turn around.

“An ownership transferal form.”

As if to confirm, Soundwave brought up a diagnostic display of the ship – and stamped it with the word ‘IRREPARABLE’. He did not consider the Nemesis itself worth much more than scrap metal, not with its hull torn and its engines non-functional. Only the computers would be of use. And apparently Soundwave had no need of the data kept on them.

The ex-Decepticon made an inelegant talking motion with his fingers. The only signature he needed was an audio file.

Ultra Magnus ignored the aches where he’d been recently patched up, and stood to attention with his hands behind his back.

“On behalf of the Autobots, I, Ultra Magnus, accept full responsibility for the ship known as the Nemesis, and all files contained within its databanks.”

The gabbing motion turned into a thumbs-up, and Soundwave let his arm drop back to his side. On-screen, a voiceprint appeared and moved over to the base of the document, locking itself in place.

Soundwave turned wordlessly to head for the door. Ultra Magnus couldn’t be sure precisely why Soundwave was cooperating, but he felt he had a good idea.

“Soundwave. Before you go, I would remind you of one thing.”

The ex-‘con halted in front of the door.

“With the war over, and with his new upgrades, Megatron may not require your assistance any longer. And the universe is large. Should you wish to stay, and aid in the reconstruction of our home, you would not be turned away.”

Soundwave’s silence lasted longer than usual. Then, without much ceremony, Magnus’ voice was played back at him.

_I FOLLOWED HIM THROUGH THE STARS FOR VORNS. AND I WOULD DO IT AGAIN._

The door slid open, and Soundwave stalked noiselessly past a concerned-looking Ratchet.

The medic waited until he was gone before venturing forwards, looking relieved when he saw Ultra Magnus still in one piece.

“I take it things went well?”

“Soundwave is an… enigmatic individual,” Magnus replied carefully. “But he is an _excellent_ soldier.”

Ratchet shook his head in disbelief, stepping into the room to attempt to usher the injured Cybertronian back to the medical bay. It had been against his better judgement to allow him to leave in the first place, but apparently trusting Ultra Magnus’ insistence had been the right move. As it often was. “Well! I’ll bet it was his lack of directive that made negotiations so easy.” He huffed irritably. “And I will not be allowing you to put yourself at any more unnecessary risk. You may not always be so lucky. Let’s just thank the Allspark _soldiers_ aren’t in such high demand any more.”

Ultra Magnus placed his intact servo on Ratchet’s shoulder when the medic gestured for it, leaning a little of his weight on him. Ratchet would not approve of him putting up a front when he’d seen the diagnostics firsthand.

“Which reminds me,” he mused, “I’ve been thinking. Bumblebee is… younger. Fitter. More capable.”

“ _And_ less experienced,” Ratchet added gruffly. He could see where this was going, but aside from the quip, didn’t try to pre-emptively change his mind.

Magnus gave a genuine smile that the medic immediately pretended not to see. “I think perhaps everyone expected this. And I would not be one to disappoint. I may step down from my post, and leave Bumblebee to the leadership position he deserves.”

“May Primus have mercy on our sparks,” Ratchet grumbled, but there was an oddly agreeable undertone in his voice. “Cybertron will be rebuilt in black and yellow stripes. You’ve doomed us all.”

Ultra Magnus, for once exhausted of his usual composure, _laughed._


	8. consulting agents

_Plenty to think about._ Now that he was left alone with his thoughts, and (he had checked) no means of escaping the medical berth, Starscream was finding his own words come back to haunt him yet again.

He would have to write off Knock Out as an option. The newly-turned Autobot refused to let him appeal for his freedom, or his wings. If he tilted his helm all the way to the left, he could just about make out the faint shape of one of them lying atop some scattered datapads, but he didn’t know where the other was. Storage, probably. Or Knock Out had conveniently _lost_ it in the hopes of grounding him permanently. He’d missed a lot of details with his right optic slashed.

Starscream shifted uncomfortably. Without his wings, lying on his back just emphasised the feeling of _wrongness,_ and though Knock Out and the Autobot medic had patched up everything that had been actively bleeding, everything still ached. His earlier struggles of protest had sent spikes of pain shooting straight up to his processor, and for now at least he was glad for the silence, because Knock Out’s voice had begun to give him one _beast_ of a headache.

The term brought up flashes from his memory, claws and teeth and glowing eyes, and he quickly snapped his military training back into place. Vent in… vent out. (There was a hollow rattle from somewhere in his chest. A fan had been tampered with.) He would address the personal trivialities later. Right now he had to consider his current predicament, and possibly think up a way out of it.

Who else was on-world? Within walking distance? Eradicons, he ventured, and whoever else had made it back early once the planet lit back up on the map. Not many. The Autobots, too, but they weren’t worth considering until he was actually in the act of leaving, so he cast those aside. The Nemesis wouldn’t fly again; he had seen its condition as they’d arrived, just after Ratchet had transformed beneath him and shaken him out of the uneasy powerdown he’d slipped into somewhere along the way. (He’d gone straight back into it once they passed into the Nemesis corridors, but that did _not_ mean he considered the ship a safe zone.)

They had arrived together. Stayed together, for a while, until everything went to the pits. He must still be on-world _somewhere,_ if his precious pets hadn’t torn him apart too. Maybe it would be worth tracking him down. Starscream knew where his favoured laboratory was; there was a slim hope, then, that Shockwave would have returned to it. The only real issue was getting there before Knock Out returned to declare him a lost cause.

He just _knew_ the arrogant sports car would be all too glad to inform the Autobots he was unfixable, the same as he’d suggested with Megatron so long ago. And Starscream knew being awake would not affect that decision, in the end. He was the enemy. Perhaps Arcee, in all her terrible judgement, would want to finish the job herself. He welcomed the attempt. Watching the conflicted look in her eyes last time had been so very, very satisfying.

…No. Self-preservation came first. Starscream tried lifting his arm from his side, knowing already that the bare wiring on his wrist would sting against the holding cuffs. Apparently his feet had been left free, but the berth was too far from any of the surfaces for that to be any use, and what little strength he’d recovered was not enough for the leverage he’d need to break the locks. Growling faintly, he willed himself to lie still and keep thinking, but the sound of a door hissing open made him lift his helm – immediately regretting it as a flood of dizziness turned his one-sided vision blurry.

Two sets of footsteps, two different shades of red, some white on the right hand side… The medics, he worked out before his vision reoriented itself. They’d come in from a side room, presumably after dumping the Prime’s injured commander there.

“Come to finish me off, have you?” he grated out, hating the way his voice wavered halfway through. He wanted to sound daring, not _exhausted._ “Take your time, doctors! Make it _hurt._ ”

“I _told_ you he would be melodramatic about it,” Knock Out muttered, rolling his shoulders.

Ratchet headed straight for the wing and the datapads, picking one up and checking it over. “Tell him.”

“Me? But-!” A hand-wave from Ratchet silenced him, and Starscream squinted a little to see Knock Out’s expression change to an aggravated one. “Fine. But if he starts shouting, he’s all yours. I decided I was done with _this_ the moment I left the Decepticons.”

Focusing was making the headache worse, so Starscream let his head rest back on the berth and settled for staring off at the corner with a disgusted frown. “What is it the good doctor insists on you telling me, Knock Out? By all means, let me in on the joke.”

“I ought to unplug you,” Knock Out muttered, gesturing to the cords feeding energon back into the injured jet, but made no move to end him just yet. “Starscream, I’m going to say it plainly. We don’t have the resources to fix you right now.”

Starscream let out a harsh bark of laughter, revelling in the shocked look that crossed Knock Out’s faceplate. “I knew it! I knew you’d cave. What’s it going to be, Knock Out? Medically-induced offlining? Or will you cut out my spark with your favourite dissection tool?”

“What? _This?”_ Knock Out’s arm transformed easily into its buzzsaw mode, and with a rev of the small engine he held it disturbingly close to his face. Starscream tilted his head away, suddenly regretting the dare.

_“Ehhp.”_

The traitor sighed in Starscream’s face, amusement disappearing instantly, and shifted his hand back to normal. “He’s being difficult!” he barked off to one side.

“Not how we do things.”

Another sigh. _“Right_ , right. What I _meant_ was, Starscream, we can’t fix _all_ of you. You’ll be free to move soon enough, but there are… complications. Moral _and_ medical.” Starscream stared at him in disbelief, his one useless optic not quite tracking the doctor’s movements as he stalked around the berth to check a screen. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: your hardware is as _obsolete_ as it gets. And when the Nemesis took a nosedive, the cargo area and private storage was… shaken up,” he said plainly, just a little too annoyed to smirk. “I’m sure the parts we need are _somewhere_ among the rubble, but finding them is just about the _last_ thing anyone cares about right now. So we’re going with temporary fixes.”

“Fixes,” Starscream repeated slowly.

Knock Out hummed agreeably, not looking up. “Mmm. You’re not getting that optic back online any time soon, so I’ll have it disconnected for efficiency’s sake and we’ll go with a good old-fashioned patch. Your wings are banged up, but Ratchet seems to have the situation in hand – anyway, we’re keeping them _well_ away from you for now. I’ve also taken the liberty of disconnecting your weapons,” he purred.

“You’re actually going to fix me,” Starscream remarked, staring at him as best he could manage. Part of him wanted to laugh, and probably accounted for the hitch in his voice. Part of him was disgusted. “You defected, and you’re actually going to waste your resources on me!”

“Since when does that matter?” Ratchet piped up irritably from the other side of the medbay. “You were all too keen on getting _my_ medical help back on Earth, and I’ve always been an Autobot.”

“Not the same!” he insisted, voice pitching upwards as a familiar dread crawled into his spark. “He’ll kill me, as soon as your back is turned! You have no idea how a Decepticon thinks!”

Knock Out glanced up, opting to look neutral. He was more interested in Ratchet’s reaction than he was offended.

The older medic finally turned to face Starscream, jabbing a datapad in his direction for emphasis. “Or maybe _you_ have no idea how _Autobots_ think! Or for that matter _any_ Cybertronian that isn’t you! Maybe we _should_ have left you in that throne room, but that’s not what Optimus would have wanted. And even Knock Out knows it.”

Knock Out’s optics flicked over to watch Starscream again, his expression still curiously blank.

 _…Interesting._ Starscream fell silent, waiting for the younger doctor to speak again as Ratchet turned back to his work, huffing and grumbling to himself under his breath.

“Well,” Knock Out said simply, “that answers that.” His hand found its way to his hip, and the blank look turned into a bored one as he filed away whatever sharp thing he’d been thinking about for later. “So. Also of note, you have a dented fan that _charity ‘bot_ over there decided was worth removing for your own safety, so I wouldn’t try anything too strenuous until we can replace it. But I know how you value your mobility, Starscream – so I’m willing to start some _minor_ physical therapy earlier than planned.” He held up a claw, optics piercing Starscream right to his spark. _“But:_ one wrong move, and I can’t guarantee we’ll _ever_ glue those wings back on.”

Starscream watched him closely, weighing his options. Freedom wasn’t _freedom_ if it just meant a supervised walk around sickbay. But he needed to know where his limits had dropped to, if he ever wanted to escape… and besides, even if Knock Out intended on going back on his word, Starscream now had _leverage._

His voice came out in a low growl. “Very well.”

 

***

 

 

Miko stomped her foot, twin ponytails bobbing comically, and as Jack geared up to grill her again she turned to him and held up a finger to shut him up, her other hand pinned petulantly to her hip. “Hear me out, Jack! Fowler never tells us _anything_ any more. Wasn’t it _your mom_ who said we could be agents?”

 _“Consultants,”_ he corrected automatically, slumping a little more on the couch and turning his head away. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with this, especially after Rafael’s outburst an hour ago. “Until we all come of age. You know the rules, Miko.”

“Sure,” she snapped, “but all he’s _consulted_ us about so far is staying home and playing the nothing-ever-happened game! Do you want to be an agent someday, or _don’t_ you?”

“Do you want to shut up?” he yammered, waggling his head a little as he said it just to get her goat.

Jack pointedly ignored her when it worked a little too well, sending her storming down the metal steps and off to another part of the hangar. _Great._

He knew he was being childish. His mom had already got on his case for acting out at home, and now it seemed he and Miko were at odds over her fixation on going to Cybertron. She’d insisted her only ‘hope’ was the suit he’d used last time, but...

 Everything they’d built between them felt like it was falling apart, and for once, Jack didn’t want to take responsibility. And so what if Raf was right? Every time he thought about the Autobots he wanted to call, wanted to talk to Optimus, and every time he had to remind himself it was impossible. No closure, just repeating thoughts because the nasty fact wouldn’t sink in – it just hung around making him sullen and irritable. He even agreed with Miko on one thing – what was the point in having a phone that could call Autobots if he couldn’t use it for the one he wanted to talk to most? And _okay,_ it was ungrateful to Raf, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

Responsibility was sounding less and less attractive by the day, and if his mom or Raf or Miko or anybody else didn’t like his attitude, they could just… go… _frag_ themselves.

A piercing screech of metal cut straight through his moody reverie, and Jack nearly jumped a foot in the air as he scrambled to his feet and whirled around to find the source, hands snapping to the sides of his head in an attempt to block out the sound. A tiny part of him wondered if this was his mom’s doing somehow, because he’d thought he could get away with a curse by thinking it in Cybertronian slang, but humorous as it was this thought quickly fizzled when he saw the source of the noise.

Claws were hooked around the edge of the main hangar door, making four distinct dents in the metal, and with very little effort their owner was prying the thing open. The automatic locks snapped one by one, and Jack felt his heart leap into his mouth as the entire mechanism gave and the door slammed suddenly to the side to reveal a strange (yet _very familiar_ ) Cybertronian standing in the harsh sunlight.

“Jack!” Rafael raced to his side, teetering to a halt on one foot just behind him before grabbing his shirt with one hand to get his attention. Instinctively, and despite what he’d been thinking just a few seconds ago about responsibility, Jack tensed and held out his arm in front of the younger boy, posing ready to bolt at any second.

Megatron took three steps forwards, putting himself in the shade inside the hangar, and turned his head slowly this way and that to give a cursory examination of its interior. Then, his eyes settled on Jack.

“Now may be a good time to let you know I didn’t come here to eradicate you,” he said, slow and confident, head tilting to one side to belay his ill humour. “But I would not be averse to a change of spark. So, to put it simply: _do not tempt me.”_

Without looking, he curled his servo into a fist and raised it slightly. The high whine of his arm cannon powering up froze Miko in her tracks, and after a moment she dropped the oversized power cable she’d been slowly inching towards him and settled for throwing her hands in the air instead.

Jack’s eyes flicked from Megatron to Miko and back. Perhaps she’d never stop getting herself in trouble, but for once he couldn’t blame her for trying. He doubted anyone else was coming to their rescue.

“I was expecting the older human agent,” he continued after it became clear the children were not about to try anything heroic; “but I do not plan on tracking down one elusive human spy when I have three unarmed humans before me. This will be an exchange of information, then. And then, if you are _exceptionally lucky,_ I will leave _without_ turning all three of you into smoking smears on the floor. Are we clear?” he asked slowly, as if speaking to someone who did not quite speak the same language.

Jack frowned, straightening up just a bit, and somehow managed to call up that old defiant glint to his eyes that he used to call courage. He’d play it safe, as usual, but that didn’t mean he was going to act happy to see him. “What do you want to know?”

To his credit, Megatron had not yet smirked at them, and didn’t seem inclined to start now. He walked further into the hangar, apparently deciding Miko wasn’t worth the continued attention; when he came to a halt in front of Jack, the height of the platform didn’t even bring him up halfway to eye level. Unlike Optimus, Megatron would not stoop to speak to the indigenous life. He felt Raf’s hand close a little more tightly around his shirt.

“Actually,” Megatron began calmly, _“I_ was planning on starting things off. You see, as an ex-warlord I have a few duties still left to perform. One of which,” he continued, “is-“

_“Ex-warlord?”_

Megatron’s expression changed to something akin to mild surprise, and he turned to glance down at Miko with an evaluative look. “Ah. Then the Autobots have told you _nothing.”_ There was something disturbingly _calm_ about this Megatron – one Jack was quickly deciding was not the same as the one they had confronted before. “How to put it simply enough for your primitive processors to understand? …Ah, yes.” He leaned over slightly, as though bringing himself down just a little more to Jack’s level (not that it made much of a difference – it felt more condescending than helpful), and folded his hands behind his back. “I _quit.”_

 

 

***

 

 

“Scientist.”

Shockwave raised his cannon arm in acknowledgement, the usable servo and his visual attention currently occupied with a close examination the broken wing he’d managed to remove from his back. “Enter.” There was a lot that needed fixing, but he had far more time than he’d need; in another fit of illogical decision-making, he had opted to start with the easiest first.

Clawed footsteps behind him drew a bit closer as Predaking strode confidently into the lab, his curiosity piqued a bit upon noticing Shockwave’s side-project. “Should you not be working on more important things?”

Shockwave turned halfway to face him, his broken audials twitching slightly as he considered his next words carefully. “There is nothing else to be done at this time than wait. The whole operation is… complex.” He paused for a moment, opting to ignore the way the Predacon leader was staring thoughtfully at the incomplete specimen. “Should you not be scouting for CNA?”

The Predacon gave a low, thoughtful rumble as he turned to look back at him. “I found something of _yours_ instead.”

He raised one servo and hooked the talons, signalling to the others to bring in their find. As Darksteel stepped inside with a confident smirk, Sky Lynx followed, holding a Cybertronian hostage by pinning his slender plated arms to his sides. “Where should I throw ‘im?”

Predaking spared a glance for their prisoner before looking back to Shockwave again; there was something strangely humble in his unwillingness to speak right now, as though he did not quite know what to do with himself. Shockwave understood this as a silent prompt for instructions, and decided to ignore it. Predaking was not his to order around, and neither were the others, any more. He addressed his ex-teammate instead.

“Soundwave. I take it you were looking for me.” It was not a question. He had a feeling not even three Predacons could have brought him here if this wasn’t his intended destination all along.

Soundwave nodded anyway. Ultra Magnus’ voice played itself out from his speakers.

_I HAVE MY SUSPICIONS ABOUT THE EFFECTS OF THE GRAVITATIONAL FLUX ON YOUR SYSTEMS, THOUGH IT WOULD REQUIRE A FULL MEDICAL EXAMINATION TO MAKE CERTAIN._

“You have been in the presence of Autobots.” Another nod. Shockwave was silent for a moment, unsure of what the other Decepticon expected of him. “I am not a medic, Soundwave.”

Sky Lynx tensed as Soundwave wrested one arm from his grip, but it was only to point at the stabilising wing on Shockwave’s desk. Soundwave knew of his skill in self-repair and augmentation. Apparently that was enough.

Shockwave spared the wing a contemplative look, and then picked it up and moved it aside to make room on his workspace. “Very well.”

Predaking watched curiously as Soundwave stepped forwards, quietly making his way to the makeshift berth, and his yellow optics flicked over to Shockwave a moment later. “Am I to take it this means your team is regrouping?” he asked quietly. There was a strange edge to his voice, like he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted everyone to know just how much he disapproved of the idea.

Soundwave paused with one servo on the berth, then turned his helm slightly to address the Predacon with the same audio clip he had played to Ultra Magnus.

_THE DECEPTICONS ARE NO MORE._

“I believe,” Shockwave said after a moment of strange tension, “it is just us.”

Predaking relaxed, giving a nod of understanding, and turned away. “Darksteel. Sky Lynx. Return to our exploration. Remember: you are scouting for space, not _trouble._ If I catch either of you disobeying orders, I will clip your wings myself.”

The other two Predacons snickered between themselves, nudging each other out of the door, and Predaking displayed an unexpectedly non-stoic eye-roll. Shockwave watched the Predacon carefully, helping Soundwave onto the berth with his usable servo without needing to look.

Perhaps he expected to be prompted. “Do you have questions?”

“Many,” Predaking answered, a faint smirk playing on his face for a moment (an attempt at philosophical humour?) before he sobered again. “The most pressing of which being on the subject of _space bridges.”_

His personality was still developing, even now. Shockwave did not have it in him to be surprised, nor to humour the Predacon’s emergent sense of humour. There were more pressing matters. “We do not currently have access to any means of travel between planetary bodies. Building a space bridge would take resources and personnel we do not have.”

“Then our cause is more impossible than I suspected.”

Shockwave stared at him for a moment longer before relocating himself to another workbench, attempting to pick through the mess of tools to find anything that might serve a medical purpose. “That is not what I meant.” He lifted an intimidating-looking laser scalpel, glancing across at Soundwave (who diligently refused to be intimidated). “The Autobots possess one already. Given their ethical guidelines I would not think it too bold to suggest… a treaty.”

Despite Shockwave’s caution at even suggesting such a thing, Predaking was undaunted – or at least oblivious. “A wise suggestion.” He didn’t _know_ the extent of the Decepticon-Autobot war, but perhaps it didn’t matter. He was working with what little he knew to piece together his own logical understanding. Shockwave found this admirable. “They posed the same to me, however… that was before I was in any position to accept their offer.” Or perhaps Predaking understood better than he thought.

Odd, that plans for peace came so readily to mind now that Megatron had removed himself from the picture. Shockwave had long considered ruling in his stead. And yet the more time he spent in this laboratory, with his own creations coming and going as they pleased, and the one other former Decepticon now seeking him out for medical attention, the less attractive the prospect seemed.

Perhaps this was enough. (‘Enough’ was subjective, and to use it now was illogical. He used it anyway.)

“Soundwave,” he said after a moment, his own voice unfamiliar in how uncertain it sounded, “what… do you suggest?”

The old officer turned his helm to look at him from his horizontal position on the slab, and gave what was perhaps the most awkward shrug ever performed by a sentient being.

Shockwave stared incredulously at him.

“Then I pose that from now on, we set our own objectives,” he said carefully, encouraged by the lack of interruption from Soundwave. “It will be interesting to follow Predaking’s example.”

There was the very faint sound of shifting metal as Predaking stood just a little taller, a look of surprise making itself apparent. “My example,” he repeated quietly, taking a moment to process the implications of what Shockwave had said. “…Perhaps.”

“You have proven you are more than capable of making decisions.”

“Yes,” he said quickly, and then tried again, a little slower and a notch or two more confident. “Of… course. But it is wise to… acknowledge… that I do not have a vast understanding of-“

“Predaking,” Shockwave interrupted, turning to point the dormant scalpel at him, “were you to show this kind of uncertainty in front of Darksteel and Sky Lynx, they would seize leadership from you in two klicks.” Predaking frowned, his wings rising in what Shockwave understood to be a threat display, and he hurried to explain. “Which suggests there is still a part of your programming telling you to defer to me.”

The wings flicked upwards a bit further, Predaking baring his sharpened denta with a discontented growl. “I defer to _no one._ ”

Shockwave nodded calmly and turned back to Soundwave, activating the laser scalpel and expertly running it in a slow, perfect line along a seam of his chassis. The officer had never cared much for anaesthetic, and anyway he had none to offer. “Then as ‘Decepticon’ is now an obsolete term, you may come up with our new… team name.”

Soundwave’s helm flashed an image at him: a snapshot of Shockwave himself, with a crudely-drawn angular party hat added. He gave an irritable grunt of acknowledgement.

“My suggestion was not for _fun,_ Soundwave. We may seek a treaty with Team Prime, but it would be _logical_ to keep our affairs separate. Having our own group handle would aid that matter.” He lifted off some of the casing from Soundwave’s chest, taking a small measure of gratification in the way the mech flinched. The war may be over, but he would not tolerate impudence from a Cybertronian he had previously thought to be level-headed. His normally flatline mood was not quite conforming to his sense of reason as of late.

Predaking was, thankfully, oblivious to their exchange. He began speaking, hesitantly at first. “I had the liberty of doing a small amount of research before I revealed my sentience to the world. With the lack of information available on my kind, I often stumbled upon a word one of the Autobots’ pets used to refer to me when we first met in battle.” His eyes studied the floor carefully, as though he was battling another bout of uncertainty, but this time he forged ahead after hearing Shockwave’s encouragement. “The word is _dragon._ In human tales, they commanded awe and respect. They were different to other beasts in their intelligence and purpose.” He went quiet, letting this sink in, and then muttered an afterthought. “I have grown somewhat fond of the title.”

Shockwave considered this for a moment, and spoke without much of a reaction. “Then we will present our treaty suggestion as Team Dragon if it pleases you, Predaking.” He glanced over at Soundwave’s visor, finding he was beginning to lose his patience when he noted the image of him had now been edited to include wings and a tail. “Do you wish me to remove your optical sensors as well?” he muttered sharply.

Predaking turned to leave, having nodded at the scientist’s back and unsurprisingly found himself ignored. “I will pose the alliance suggestion to the Autobots at my own convenience. Good luck with your patient,” he added after a pause.

Shockwave turned to watch him leave, feeling suddenly very awkward. “…Good luck with your mission.”

_GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR MISSION._

Shockwave had years of training, solitude, and carefully-rationalised determination to thank for not automatically elbowing Soundwave in the visor.


	9. frenemies

Starscream made a noise that, had they been on Earth, Knock Out would have attributed to reversing over a cat’s tail. As it was, they were standing in the middle of the medical bay on the grounded Nemesis, and Knock Out retreated just a few steps from the injured former air commander, who had lashed his arms out to either side for balance.

“How dare you! _Knock Out!_ Get back here!”

“Oh, come, now, Starscream, you’re not a human child. The sparklings are doing a better job of moving on their own out there than you are.” He rested one hand on his hip, making it clear from his body language that he had absolutely no intention of making this any easier. “Try a few steps on your own.”

“Knock Out!”

“One won’t kill you, Starscream. I don’t have all day. Do you ever plan on recovering, or will you be lying around on the medberth this time next stellar cycle? The _other_ Autobot medic left me completely in charge of your recovery, so-” he _chuckled,_ which made Starscream begin shouting expletives ( _internally_ , to his credit) “-you know, you’re going to have to help me make a good impression.”

The jet made another unpleasant noise and sucked in a deep breath, his claws spread out like he planned on raking them across Knock Out’s finish at the nearest opportunity (he did, and Knock Out would perhaps be making this easier on him if he didn’t). With his pride already wounded, he gingerly forced one foot forwards and his expression contorted in a wince.

“I’m fine,” he spat, not for the first time in the hour, “I don’t need- _graagh!”_ He stumbled backwards again, his servos locking onto the edge of the berth and holding him there. He fired a spiteful one-eyed glare up at Knock Out, just as soon as he could stop staring at the ground. It was moving, he was fairly certain. “Knock Out,” he grated out, hating the fact that it even needed to be said, “not to question your _expert_ medical opinion, but this is _not_ something that can be – in your own words – _walked off.”_

“Well, you’re certainly not going to _fly_ it off.”

Oh, he _hated_ that medic.

Knock Out stepped forwards, and Starscream forced one servo off the berth despite the pain that buzzed up his arm, throwing it up in front of himself claws-first. But, to his shock, the servo that took that arm was as gentle as it was firm, and Knock Out _didn’t_ shove him unceremoniously to the floor.

“Let go of the berth. Six steps, o aerial prodigy.”

The medic’s words snapped him out of it, and Starscream forcefully wrenched his arm away. He masked the bark of pain at the sudden movement with an angry growl, and Knock Out was already rolling his eyes. How _dare_ he. “Don’t touch me, Knock Out. In case you don’t recall, _you_ hit me with the Immobiliser not so long ago.”

“Mm, well, you know,” he quipped, and Starscream immediately tensed. “No one ever said my name wasn’t fitting- _NO, not the paint!”_ He skittered backwards with surprising agility, slapping away Starscream’s claws before they could make contact. “Starscream! I am trying to be _constructive!”_

“Constructive?” he asked hoarsely. _“Constructive!?_ Does the Prime know of your prowess on physical therapy, Knock Out? Does the _Autobot_ medic?”

Knock Out’s expression was laughably surprised, at least before the eyebrows came down and turned him thunderous. “I _am_ an Autobot medic!” He raised one servo, making cyclic motions in the air as he spoke. “There. I’ve said it. I’m an Autobot. Is it clear enough for you now which team I’m on, Starscream? Because let me reiterate: it’s _not_ yours. I don’t even think _you_ know which team you’re on any more-“

“Decepticon! Now and always!” he declared proudly, but found himself shrinking back as Knock Out took an angry, posturing step towards him.

“There _is_ no Decepticon! Not any more! Now are you going to-“

Starscream’s legs had been threatening to give way for several minutes now, and one of them finally made good on that threat. He scrabbled at the berth again and managed, just barely, to keep himself from hitting the floor like a sack of bricks. What a _sight_ he must make. He heard himself snarl a response just to take the attention away from what he was doing.

“No! I,” he declared, attempting to pull himself upright again and largely failing, “am Commander– Emperor of— _Lord-“_

“Lord of being a pain in everyone’s aft!” Knock Out finished for him, losing his patience at last. Oh, but Starscream was being a _baby_ about this. “What are your plans this time, Starscream?” He let his helm nod to one side condescendingly. “Go cruising out there flaunting your badge and expecting everyone to play along? That stopped working a _long_ time ago, _ex-_ Commander, and you seem to be the only one who hasn’t noticed!”

Starscream felt a rush of panic, and pulled his ace out of his sleeve. “Oh? And what do you care about, hmm? I’ve seen the way you wait on Ratchet’s beck and call, Knock Out! The way you seek his _approval!_ Something happened to you, Knock Out,” he said, a daring smirk sneaking onto his faceplate despite the twitch of his working eye as his claws slid unexpectedly towards the edge of the berth. “And I’m tempted to say you’re just as afraid of the Autobots lynching you as I am determined to get out of here. So. What do you say? If not Decepticons, at least you can agree we’re on the same side!” he finished triumphantly. The medic would let him go. Maybe come with him. It was inevitable.

Silence reigned for almost a minute, and his willpower began to crumble under the wide-eyed stare he was being given from the medic’s pair of piercing red optics.

 _“Unbelievable,”_ Knock Out said eventually. He stepped back and automatically glanced down at himself to make sure there were no new blemishes anywhere on him before sighing and settling into a more comfortable pose. There went that hand on his hip again. “But maybe you’re just out of the loop. So let me fill you in. When I step outside, do you know what I see?”

Starscream eyed him warily, not sure what he was expecting. No, he _hadn’t_ been kept in the loop. As much as he wanted to interrupt, he sensed the rhetoric – and anyway, there was a part of him burning for information even if it was about to be delivered by a livid red medic who valued Earth fashion trends over his own team.

Knock Out took his silence as a cue to continue, and swept his arm outwards in a broad gesture. “Bulkhead, Autobot heavy-hitter and village idiot, playing teacher to a team of Eradicons so generationally far from Cybertron’s society they have no idea how to tell a Cyber-matter brick from a Predacon bone!” Starscream’s eye flicked from him to the door, half-expecting him to storm out, but Knock Out wasn’t done – not by a long shot. “Bumblebee, Autobot scout and nature’s _cannon fodder,_ throwing out commands to a team that does what they’re told because they _want_ to, not because they’re afraid of a laser through their torso! Arcee, Autobot warrior – Smokescreen, Autobot _rookie_ – both on duty tracking and overseeing the development of new sparks and the formation of new Cyber-matter, both things Cybertron hasn’t seen in vorns! Oh, and why _is_ our planet slowly crawling its way back onto the map, Starscream? Do tell. I’d love to know your take on it. No,” he said quickly, holding up a digit to silence him before he _tried,_ “let me tell you. _Autobots._ Cybertron owes everything to Autobots. _You_ owe everything to Autobots! That is, if you even still remember why you were fighting them in the first place.”

Starscream’s claws finally lost their grip on the berth and he crashed to the floor with a strangled yelp, ending up with his knees splayed beneath him and one servo pillared against the floor to prevent him from falling on his face. The other clutched at his chest as he vented shakily and something _rattled._ His fans should be keeping his temperature more stable by now, but he reminded himself one had been removed. Probably just to spite him.

Knock Out’s voice cut through that thought like a Star Saber. “So. By all means, Starscream, tell yourself I’m faking it, or whatever it is you _want_ to tell yourself in order to keep pretending. I’ll be over here, _willingly_ calling myself a member of Team Prime, and reading page three of the Automobile Fancier’s Digest while I wait for you to _finally_ switch gears. Which reminds me,” he added, “human culture has its perks. And no one is lining up to claw my paint off for admitting that. In fact, there are a couple of Autobots who _agree_ with-“

“I think I’m dying,” Starscream rasped quietly.

Knock Out sighed dramatically. “Oh, come off it, Starscream, you – oh. No, your vitals are all over the place, let’s get you back on the berth.” He stooped to help the ex-air commander up, chiding him on the way. “Stop panicking, you moron, you’re overworking your system.”

Willing his processor to slow down, Starscream for once allowed himself to be supported until he was sitting on the medical berth, and spoke without bothering to wait for the dizzying effects to wear off. “You really think the Autobots are all that, don’t you?” he groaned, too exhausted to sound as spiteful as he wanted.

The red medic shrugged, handing him an energon cube. “Being able to speak your mind without a backhander from a tyrant is a nice perk,” he muttered. It seemed like the fiery mood he’d been in just a moment ago had all but fizzled out once he was reminded he had a job to do. Starscream understood purpose had a way of clearing the mind. “Which you’d know, if you gave it a chance for five klicks.”

“You want me to join you,” he observed, his voice still failing to sound anything like impertinent.

“Do you want the truth, Starscream?”

Starscream eyed the energon cube dubiously. “Couldn’t hurt, now, could it?”

“Mm.” He sounded agreeable. “Fine. Then yes. I may be a member of Team Prime in an _official_ capacity, but I don’t quite fit in with the moral regulars. Not yet, anyway.” Knock Out paused to think things over. Starscream didn’t dare to look up from his energon, knowing the medic had his eyes fixed right on him. “And neither do you. I’m not leaving, but at the very least having you around might give me somewhere to stick my complaints.”

“I’ll tell you exactly where you can stick them.”

 _“Oh,_ and the stilettoed plane finds his sense of humour,” he said, gesturing theatrically, but his tone didn’t seem to have any bitterness in it. “But I’m being serious, Starscream. The offer’s open.”

The jet stared down at the half-finished cube for a while before eventually summoning the willpower to glance up. “There are strings attached. Conditions.”

“Naturally,” came the bright response.

“What other options do I have right now?” he grated out, knowing the response even as Knock Out grinned triumphantly at him.

“None whatsoever.”

“Hmm.” Feeling the head rush beginning to settle down, Starscream downed the rest of his energon and settled into the oddly comfortable feeling of complete and utter hopelessness. At least it was better than Imminent Offlining, which was what he’d been working with before. “Then I suppose you had better bring me the paperwork, hadn’t you?” he growled begrudgingly.

Knock Out’s grin widened. “Well! We don’t have that kind of formality right now, but maybe you’d rather have a copy of Combat Aircraft National?”

“Don’t be crude.” There was a pause. “You don’t really have that, do you? …Knock Out, that’s disgusting.”

 

 

***

 

 

“Let me get this straight,” Miko ventured loudly, causing the imposing figure in front of her to turn and stare down at her. She was not deterred. “After Optimus beat _Unicron…_ who was using _your_ body…you decided you’d had enough of ordering people around. So you came _here_ to… what? Tell everyone you aren’t playing the game any more?”

Megatron gave a moment’s consideration the possibility that Miko Nakadai was better crushed beneath his heel than spoken to. The moment passed without incident. He supposed he could take pride in his restraint. “Though your re-telling of it is… _artless…_ you are correct. Though I assure you, it is not wise to use the word ‘game’ to refer to a war spanning longer than your race took to evolve.” Irked, but thankfully not yet at the end of his patience, Megatron turned back to Jack. “As such… I will get to the point. I require the use of your communications system.”

Jack stared at him for a moment. He turned his head, glancing across at the base computer, and then back at Megatron with an increasingly confused expression. “Uh… Okay?”

Megatron faltered. Was this how permission was normally asked? Perhaps etiquette had changed somewhat since he had been too wrapped up in tyranny to pay heed to it. He tried an alternative. “Would you prefer I took what I wanted by force?”

The human stared back at him for a long time.

“…You’re… _not…_ doing that?”

Ah. “If I had intended to conduct this operation differently, you would _know about it,”_ he emphasised, fixing Jack with a caustic look. Were all humans this dim-witted? He hadn’t had time to check.

The smallest human, the one he’d been ignoring since he walked in, gingerly peered out from behind Jack. His voice was almost as squeaky as their femme’s. “You’re asking our permission?”

Megatron glared at him in the full understanding it would make him more nervous than he already was. Torture was beyond him, now, but intimidation tactics were not.

“No,” he answered simply, “I am asking your acting leader’s permission.”

“M-me?”

 _“Him?!”_ Miko interrupted Jack with all the grace of a strangled cat, and Megatron diligently ignored her as she stormed over to the metal steps and stomped her way up them. “You think _Jack_ is leader? Are you crazy?”

“Miko-!”

Megatron found he had none of his usual temper ready to put them in their place. Compromising, he opted for sarcasm, bending over to put his face just above their position on the platform. Perhaps that would be imposing enough to shut her up. “I am becoming increasingly aware that your military officer has limited understanding of the word ‘quiet’. Luckily it is an issue I am all too familiar with. Perhaps you’d like some pointers on silencing her?”

This had the opposite effect than he intended, but it seemed to coincide with shutting her up. Miko’s face froze, staring at him with something akin to incredulity, and then she nudged Jack in quiet awe and muttered, “You can be leader. Military officer is _way_ better.”

“Hey – wait,” Jack held up his hand, and not for the first time Megatron understood that this situation was going to go on a lot longer than he had originally expected. Humans had a way of testing one’s patience. “We’re not – the Autobots are – we’re not part of your war. We don’t have things like-“

“You became a part of it the moment you clapped eyes on the Autobots. I am not unaware of you, humans, as much as _you_ are completely unaware of wartime etiquette. It _baffles_ me that they never thought to teach you of your place.” He tilted his helm very slightly on one side. “I told you once that I never forgot a face, and perhaps you would find it flattering to hear I took the chance to learn your names as well – Jack Darby. Miko Nakadai. Rafael _Jorge Gonzales_ Esquivel.”

Raf flinched. Jack gently pushed him back into his shadow, ever ready to protect the younger boy. Miko’s face, on the other hand, lit up in clear vindication.

“Good to hear you know just how much aft we can kick,” Miko muttered, grinning deviously. “Hear that, Jack? Even _Megatron_ knows about us. And Fowler won’t even give us the time of day!”

Jack gawped, horrified. He’d been operating all this time under the assumption that they were too small, too harmless, for the Decepticons to pay attention to them. He’d convinced himself that the element of surprise was all they’d ever had going for them. But now Megatron revealed he had considered them a threat long before their final standoff, and Jack’s blood ran cold at the realisation that they had always been on his radar. Why he’d chosen to ignore them for so long, then, was beyond Jack’s comprehension.

Megatron returned to his upright position, the weight of his new chassis making it impractical to hold a bent pose for long. “It was after Esquivel interrupted my communications officer in aligning our spacebridge that I had Soundwave dig up more information on the three of you. Due to your pitifully short lifespans, however, that information was shockingly lacking. It was somewhat mystifying to realise how meddlesome three humans could be before even reaching their species’ idea of maturity.” He’d been studying the ceiling calmly, and now cast his gaze down at Jack. “You three are quite the prodigies,” he remarked sardonically.

“But I’m not-“

Megatron was finally reaching the end of his abnormally long-fused patience for today. “Optimus Prime held you in high regard. You are also the oldest, are you not?”

“Yeah, but-“

“Then, for the time being, command of this base falls to you. May we move on?”

Jack opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again before realising he had nothing else at his disposal with which to argue. He fell silent, willing himself not to look away, because it was at this point that he realised Megatron didn’t _care_ that he didn’t want to lead – and neither did the rest of the universe, apparently. _Some have greatness thrust upon them,_ he found himself thinking. _Always hated Shakespeare._

Satisfied with his lack of contention, Megatron continued. “If you will finally stop obstinately undermining every aspect of this conversation, we’ll move things along. Your communications system,” he continued, gesturing calmly to the computer with one brutal set of talons, “with your _permission.”_

Jack looked over at Miko for assistance, but she merely shrugged in a way that unhelpfully said _he’s talking to you, dude._ She had been right about a few things lately, but especially about dropping the leadership discussion. Right now, Jack found he would happily have settled for military officer instead.

“…You have permission. But we’ll be watching you. Don’t try anything funny.”

“Why, Jack,” Megatron quipped, gracefully extending a spiky, clawed servo that should never have been associated with the word; “how on Earth would you ever plan to stop me?”

His hand hovered at the edge of the platform, just beyond the railing, and Jack swallowed hard. Of course Megatron would need his assistance. Autobot technology (especially spliced with human technology) was hardly a Decepticon warlord’s specialty.

 _Ex-warlord,_ he reminded himself quickly as he took two shaky steps to the edge of the platform and climbed uneasily up onto the railing. _Ex._ He winced as his foot came down tentatively on Megatron’s palm, and bit back the panic that threatened to eat him from the ground up when giant, bladelike fingers curled upwards around him. _Ex-warlord. Not a warlord any more. Probably won’t kill you._

When Megatron lifted him away, Jack forced his eyes open after the initial stomach lurch and spared a glance over his shoulder at the other two humans. It occurred to him that he had rarely seen Miko looking so anxious.

 

 

***

 

 

Ultra Magnus made a vague attempt at folding his hands on the desk in front of him before remembering there was only one to work with. He settled for cupping that one around the replacement claw instead, unfazed, and continued to stare straight ahead as the other Autobots slowly filed into the room.

He had wanted to perhaps conduct this meeting in a more fitting place, maybe in a disused council office room somewhere in the ruins of the city, but the unstable architecture and admittedly still-bleak appearance didn’t seem quite right – and besides, Ratchet was adamant that he stayed on the Nemesis for the rest of his recovery.

He’d certainly thought things through, at least – meticulously, and with great attention to detail – but that fact coupled with his military training was not enough to stop him from being uncharacteristically nervous. This was perhaps due to the knowledge that after today, his military training would be one less thing to worry about. Or to rely upon.

Not that it was helping him much now. Ratchet had insisted that he be seated for the duration of the meeting, and it was only at his gravest insistence that the physician had even allowed it to take place so soon. The result was that Ratchet was not happy, and Ultra Magnus was not comfortable, but he felt these were details of less importance than the meeting itself.

“At ease,” he said after everyone had entered, despite the fact that a couple of the Autobots did not seem to want to bother assuming a proper stance. He was used to it by now, and was beginning to understand that the lack of formality did not necessarily mean a lack of respect.

Smokescreen, he noted, was at least doing his best. The rookie’s stance was wrong, feet a little too close together, shoulders not quite far back enough, but at Magnus’ command he relaxed a little and unwittingly assumed the correct position a moment later quite by accident. Magnus spared him a plain look before turning his attention to the team as a whole.

Mentally he took a quick roll-call, but for once didn’t bother asking them to respond to a verbal register (it rarely went down without a hitch – yet another formality he’d realised Optimus Prime had not asked for often). Arcee, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Ratchet (behind him, to his right), Smokescreen, Knock Out, and… Wheeljack was absent. An unfamiliar sense of unease settled in his spark, which he promptly ignored.

“I expect you’re wondering why I gathered you today,” he began, trying to sound chipper despite the serious nature of what he was about to say. The newbie medic folded his arms expectantly, and Magnus valiantly resisted the urge to glare at him. He was an ex-Decepticon. It was to be expected. “I have an announcement to make. I decided it might be important enough to call a face-to-face meeting, given how it will affect rank for all of you. …That includes you, Knock Out,” he added gruffly.

Knock Out stopped examining the car door on his arm and flashed him a look of surprise, apparently not having realised his presence here had a point. He quickly folded his hands behind his back and pretended to look interested.

“Hm,” he vocalised discontentedly. His eyes dropped to stare at his mismatched hands, and he resisted the urge to stretch out his leg unprofessionally. There was a stiffness to recovery that he was all too used to; better not give Ratchet the excuse to cut this whole thing short. “As you know, events have conspired to remove Team Prime’s original leader from service – rest his spark,” he added, hearing Ratchet shift slightly behind him. “As such I would have taken the mantle of leadership myself as per protocol, had injury not kept me from duty thus far. And I am aware it is expected of me to rise to that occasion once I’ve recovered sufficiently.”

The atmosphere shifted a little. The Autobots now understood what this would be about, even if they didn’t know the details; the reassurance that no one was about to be lectured seemed to make several members of the group relax. Ultra Magnus wondered briefly if this was why Wheeljack had not shown up.

“…Well,” he said, awkwardly, because a Cybertronian life was a long one and this was new to him, “let it be stated for the record… how did you put it, Ratchet? ‘There’s not much call for soldiers…?’”

Ratchet hesitated, caught off-guard. “Well, I didn’t quite mean it like _that,_ Commander Magnus, bu-”

Ultra Magnus held up his claw hand to silence him, which worked perhaps a little too well judging by the way Arcee’s eyes flicked from him to Ratchet and back. He would have to try and remember how the medic felt about the claw, despite its practicality.

“To your defense,” he said, “the idea had been weighing on my mind for some time. You merely reminded me it may be time to act accordingly.” Without much ceremony, Ultra Magnus focused on the black and yellow Cybertronian in the background. “Bumblebee. Please step forward.”

The others parted slightly to allow the warrior to approach the desk, and despite his enthusiasm for finally finding his voice, Bumblebee simply nodded graciously.

“Name and rank, soldier.”

Bumblebee stood to attention, realising this was to involve a measure of decorum the rest of the meeting was so far lacking. “Bumblebee. Warrior class. Sir.”

For a moment, Ultra Magnus did nothing, in what was an unprecedented blip in his usual unflinching attitude, and simply looked up at him blankly. Bumblebee stood still, bold and confident even with what must seem to him like a very strange pause from his commanding officer. Ultra Magnus had already _decided_ he was doing the right thing, but somehow it had only just sunk into his spark.

Bumblebee glanced down, back up, and smiled encouragingly, unseen by the rest of the room.

Ultra Magnus realised he was smoothing his thumb back and forth over the cold metal of his claw, and abruptly ceased. “Bumblebee,” he stated again, “I understand that you were recently given the promotion to Warrior class by Optimus Prime. I also understand that you delayed this promotion for some time, with the intent of receiving it on Cybertronian soil.”

“That is true, sir.” Bumblebee rocked up on his heels at the statement, chipper as ever even with Ultra Magnus’ perceived hesitation.

He forged on. “Given your diligence prior to being promoted in an official capacity, and your clear dedication to the Warrior role, as well as what I have observed with my own optics and what has been reported to me,” he listed, increasingly aware that all eyes were suddenly on him, “it would not be too much of a stretch to state that you have already taken your duties above and beyond what is required of a Warrior, and exhibited commendable leadership capacities in my stead during the recent battle for Cybertron.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Bumblebee was watching him closely, a cheerful smile on his faceplate, and Ultra Magnus realised he already knew what was about to happen. He doubted Ratchet had had the chance to tell him. Bumblebee, he understood, was simply _ready._

“Taking all of these things into account, I would like to offer you the position of Lieutenant Colonel.”

There was a sudden change in atmosphere as the other Autobots registered what was going on, but to their credit, they managed to stay silent long enough to hear Bumblebee’s response.

“I would be honoured,” he replied, and then his optic patterns cycled mischievously and Ultra Magnus was the first to blink. “On one condition. Sir.”

The commander paused again, taken off-guard. “And what might that condition be, soldier?”

Bumblebee stayed steadfast, still smiling confidently back at Ultra Magnus. The warrior had a complacent air about him that the commander couldn’t quite say he didn’t care for. “That you don’t continue this meeting by declaring your retirement.”

There was a tense rush of muttering from the rest of Team Prime, and Ultra Magnus stared at him for a long time. Bumblebee’s expression never changed. Ultra Magnus began to have his suspicions that Bumblebee had planned this from the start.

Sharp kid.

“…Why… is that, soldier?” he enquired tentatively, not quite sure what had just happened to all of his confidence in this meeting ending the way he thought it would.

Bumblebee’s wing-like car doors dipped respectfully. “Because, Commander. I still have a lot to get to grips with in terms of leadership. And I can’t think of anyone I would rather learn from than you.”

The silence between them seemed to stretch on forever, and Ultra Magnus’ face was a mixture of undermined authority, uncertainty, and – mostly – embarrassment. Eventually, there was a creak of metal and Ratchet coughed conspicuously behind him.

 _“Well,”_ the old medic declared, somehow managing to silence the room with just one syllable, “I’d say Bumblebee has put into words what we were all thinking.” He stepped over to the desk beside Ultra Magnus and, with a rare, genial smile at the commander (who was now staring down at his desk, at a loss for words), Ratchet kindly took over the proceedings for him. “On behalf of my patient, I’m calling this meeting _temporarily_ adjourned. I suggest you all go back to whatever you were doing and, in the case of Bumblebee, think things over.”

The warrior turned his sly smile at Ratchet for a moment, saluting impetuously, and turned to leave with the others.

It was all too soon that they found themselves once more alone in the room, and Ultra Magnus still couldn’t for the life of him think of anything authoritative to say.

“…I… don’t think I quite understand. What was his reasoning?” he asked, genuinely hoping Ratchet might have some valid explanation. “I could tell. Bumblebee was ready for that promotion, he looked-“

“I think,” Ratchet interrupted, for once not bothering to consider military protocol around him because this matter, by itself, was not a military one at all; “the best answer I can give you is that nobody _retires_ from Team Prime.” When Ultra Magnus turned to give him a bewildered look (it didn’t fit him, at all), Ratchet’s smile widened. “Take it from me, Ultra Magnus – it gets a _lot_ easier when you stop pretending youth is the only thing making you useful.”

Ultra Magnus eyed him critically for a moment, and then looked away again, letting his optics fall shut with a tired sigh. “I suppose this means you side with Bumblebee.”

Ratchet made an agreeable noise. “Yes, yes. Bumblebee and everyone else. I suppose it hasn’t occurred to you yet that your place on Team Prime isn’t really that dependent on rank.”

The commander looked up, contemplating this, and then leaned back a little in his seat. “What was the term Prime used?” he prompted, still uncertain.

“Family.” Ratchet was, for once, unabashed in his agreement. He’d already learned this lesson. Mostly from the children, if he was honest. “Speaking of which, some of ours is still on Earth. If you’re confident in Knock Out’s medical ability, it may be high time I headed back.”

Ultra Magnus took the servo he was offered and pushed back his chair, rising to his feet with some difficulty. “…How much confidence do you have in him, doctor?”

The old medic continued to support him carefully as they made for the exit, and perhaps it could be credited to his high spirits, but he didn’t feel much like avoiding the truth.

“He may not be family material,” he mused, “but he sounds like he’s ready to give his best shot at being an Autobot.” He trusted the other medic, then, at least as far as he could throw him. Sensing he was perhaps being a little _too_ forthcoming, Ratchet lowered his voice to a rough grumble. “Just… don’t _tell_ him what I said. If his ego gets any bigger it’s going to open its own spacebridge.”


	10. politics

After serving in the war for so long, Arcee was used to being on high alert. But after the rather strange meeting they’d just had, and the events of late that still weighed heavily on her mind, she could be forgiven for not noticing the shadow that passed overhead in the dimming skies while her eyes were trained on the landscape. It didn’t help, either, that she was distracted by her work; with the emergence of so many new sparks, they’d thought it prudent to try and get a vague idea of just how many there were, and where they seemed to be congregating. If anything went wrong, or if any of the new sparks needed help, they’d need to know. It was _not,_ as she was sure some of the others suspected, an excuse to be alone and think. (It was an opportunity, not an excuse. She maintained that the two were very different.)

So, unusually, Arcee found herself taken by surprise by a sudden, loud beating of wings, and as a large, jagged figure dropped to the ground ahead of her, she dropped the datapad she’d been updating. She switched quickly into a combat stance with her weapons at the ready, but the Predacon didn’t attack. Predaking’s impressive wingspan folded at his back, and he transformed a moment later to fix her with a level stare.

“Stand down. I come alone and in peace.”

Arcee spared a concerned glance for the jagged claws that hung at his sides; she knew better than to believe it was even _possible_ for a Predacon to disarm, but Predaking seemed to be speaking the truth about his intent. If he’d intended to attack her, _or_ the sparklings, he’d have done so already. After a few seconds, her stance shifted to something less coiled and she lowered her weapons – though they didn’t yet shift back into her servos. “What do you want?”

Predaking frowned a little, annoyed by her disrespectful tone. “An audience with your Prime.”

Arcee’s eyes widened slightly, and with a quick flick of her wrists her weapons folded away. Ratchet had advised them all to keep quiet about Optimus, and she understood why – they still had too many potential enemies who might think to take advantage of the end of the age of Primes. But in the short term, this left her at a loss. What could she tell him?

“…Not available,” she said simply. She knew better than to lie, but no one needed to know the full truth just yet, much less someone as unpredictable as Predaking. Seeing him bristle, she quickly continued. “Whatever you were gonna tell him, you can tell me instead.”

“On whose authority?”

On a snap decision, Arcee folded her arms and spoke with as much confidence as she could muster. “Mine.”

Predaking studied her – much the same way, she suspected, as any Predacon might evaluate _prey._ Arcee, however, was used to squaring up to those much bigger than her, and she didn’t budge an inch. Behind her, a sparkling whisked closer and seemed to hover over her shoulder, watching the exchange with tangible curiosity. Predaking gave it a look that almost matched, and his fists relaxed at his sides. Arcee’s attitude made sense, and yet he wasn’t here to fight.

“I wish to discuss diplomacy.” Whatever defensive tactics Arcee had been preparing were swept out from underneath her. Seeing that she hadn’t been expecting this approach, Predaking elaborated. “On behalf of my _team.”_

This did not help Arcee in the slightest. “Team?” She paused, and then there was a flicker of recognition. “You and the other Predacons.”

“As well as our allies,” he added. _Now_ he had her attention. “You may tell your leader that I am ready to consider an alliance with Team Prime. But this is not a discussion I am willing to have with a mere warrior-scout.”

The warrior stared at him for a while, clearly struggling to come up with a good response, but it seemed Predaking wasn’t about to leave until he had one. Arcee, finally, flagged.

“Bee,” she said, turning her head and touching her fingers to one audial, “Predaking wants to talk politics. What do I tell him?”

 _“Does he, now?”_ came the response. She could practically hear the smile in his voice, and as strange as it was to get used to his new voice, there was something light and comforting in it. _“Bring him to the ship. I have a feeling Magnus might want to be around for this.”_

Arcee glanced back over at Predaking, who seemed to be waiting patiently for her to finish. This was a sharp contrast to the way he’d been acting towards the Autobots just a little while before, but then Arcee wasn’t used to Cybertronians turning on their heel and _meaning_ it. “Are you sure?”

 _“Hey,”_ Bumblebee cheerfully replied, _“I asked him first, remember? Escort him, Arcee – it’s only polite. I’ll meet you there.”_

The comm link clicked offline, and Arcee lowered her servo. Predaking lifted his head slightly, watching her complacently while she considered her decision.

She transformed before speaking, giving a quick rev of her engine to suggest they’d be moving. “Follow me.” Arcee turned around to face the direction they’d be going, hearing the sound of Predaking’s transformation behind her and tilting her wing mirror to put him in her sights. Then, after a moment’s thought: “Stay low.” The reflection of the Predacon leader tilted its head slightly. “I should probably fill you in on the way.”

With a growl of her engines, Arcee headed off. Predaking took to the air to catch up, taking her suggestion and flying close to the ground in order to hear what she had to say. He had no trouble keeping pace; if he flew any closer, Arcee felt as though the wind from his wings might set her off-balance.

“I’ll keep it short,” she called over the rush. “You won’t be meeting with Optimus today. The Autobots are -- under new management. Is that a problem?”

Unable to respond verbally, Predaking drew level with her and shook his head. It was… unnerving, to see a beast respond so casually and _personally_ to what she was saying, but then they’d all had to unlearn what they thought they knew about Predacons. And, Arcee had to admit, it was kind of reassuring to know they could be reasoned with after all.

She wasn’t about to relax just yet, but it was a start. “You’ll be speaking to Bumblebee, and you’ll have to settle for a group meeting. The chain of command is a little shaken up right now, but that _doesn’t_ mean we can’t defend ourselves if you try anything.”

Predaking gave a low hiss. Arcee couldn’t tell if it was acknowledgement or annoyance, or both.

 

 

***

 

 

_“You may want to get to the bridge.”_

It was the quiet shock in Smokescreen’s voice that made Ratchet hurry; the rookie turned to flash him a warning look as the door opened, and immediately the reason for Smokescreen’s urgent message was clear - the all-too-familiar face on the big screen was hard to miss.

“Ratchet. At last, an Autobot with experience.”

“Megatron.” Ratchet couldn’t pretend that being spoken to by name by the old Decepticon leader wasn’t incredibly unnerving, but he had bigger problems. Like the fact that Jack Darby was watching him intently from the screen, standing uneasily on Megatron’s hand. “Let the boy go.”

Megatron raised a pointed eyebrow, and decidedly did _not_ look happy. “Jumping to conclusions, are we not?”

Jack hurried to smooth things out, holding up his hand to attract Ratchet’s attention. “I-it’s okay! I’m not a prisoner. He asked permission!” Megatron glanced down at him, and then lifted the human a little closer to the screen as evidence. Ratchet stared in disbelief. “Yeah. I know. I didn’t believe it either. But… apparently I’m not a hostage right now!” he finished, giving a stiff, forced grin. Words didn’t change the fact that he _felt_ like one.

Megatron urged himself not to lose his patience and aimed his optics roofwards for a moment. Not one of them had an _ounce_ of formality. They should be throwing themselves prostrate before him for his admirable show of patience – but, he reminded himself, the days of people bowing to _Lord_ Megatron were over.

“Be silent, then,” he said dismissively, ignoring the way the human flinched and the field medic’s servos tightened into fists at his sides. “Believe what you wish, _medic,_ but I do not intend to harm your human companions. I am here only to pass on some information the Autobots may find valuable.” He moved his arm offscreen; when he took it back, Jack was gone. It did little to assuage Ratchet’s anxieties.

“I don’t see how you expect me to _believe_ that.” The dim purple of the Nemesis bridge cast Ratchet in a strange light on the camera. No doubt to anyone else, he would look almost imposing, but the Nemesis was more familiar to Megatron than the back of his hand (at least lately). “Just say what you have to say, Megatron, and get out of our base.”

“Easy, old ‘bot,” Smokescreen leaned over to mutter. Ratchet was experienced, yes, but his temper did have an edge to it, and he had perhaps more reason than anyone else to be incensed.

“Seeing as your patience wears thinner than mine,” Megatron said, “I will cut straight to the point. While I now have the capability for interstellar travel, the same cannot be said for other Decepticons still scattered across this world. As you are now in possession of my ship, there are thus certain duties that must now fall to you.” He paused, eyes flickering over to Smokescreen, and gave him a challenging look. The Autobot had begun fidgeting. “Speak.”

Smokescreen’s door-wings dipped a little. “It’s _our_ ship,” he explained, trying to sound confident. “Ultra Magnus signed for it just today. It’s Autobot property now.”

Megatron watched him closely for a moment, until Smokescreen began to fidget yet again under the ex-warlord’s stare, and then returned his attention to Ratchet. “Very well,” he said slowly, and Smokescreen looked relieved. “I have no need of it now. But much of the data stored there may remain inaccessible to you. One has to wonder what you plan to _do_ with it, when it is grounded so heavily…”

“Soundwave already granted us access,” Ratchet answered simply, still unhappy to be cooperating but unable to see another peaceful end to the conversation. “We retrieved him from the Shadowzone. He supervised the transfer.”

“He lives.” Megatron looked surprised. Apparently after his officer’s disappearance, he had simply written Soundwave off for dead.

Not that that was particularly surprising to Ratchet. “He most certainly does. The humans managed to shift him to another dimension-”

“Ooh, that was awesome! Communications officer versus communications officer: _Groundbridge Fight!_ We got him good.”Megatron turned to cast a cursory glance over to his right. There was a short pause as he studied Miko blankly, and presumably she realised now was not the time. “…Uh, you guys keep talking. …But just so you know, Raf totally nailed him.”

“Shh! _Miko!”_

“What? You _did!”_

Ratchet hurried to speak before Megatron had time to react to the children’s interruption. “As I was saying, Soundwave is alive and well. Our commander negotiated with him before he went to seek out Shockwave. We agreed to let him know if we found any information on your whereabouts, and it seems you’ve solved that problem for us.”

Megatron tore his attention away from the kids arguing just off-screen, and gave Ratchet a slow nod. “Soundwave’s loyalty has always been… admirable,” he said carefully.

“ _Great._ Do you want him back?”

Both of the older Cybertronians shot Smokescreen a cold look. He withered.

“If Soundwave still wishes to follow me, I doubt there is much I could do to discourage him.” Megatron looked thoughtful. “…I am reluctant to return to Cybertron. But it seems I still have unfinished business.” A beat. “Which reminds me. Open a spacebridge. And keep it open. There are many Eradicons on this planet who may wish to return to Cybertron. No doubt you could use the workforce, if you are trying to rebuild.”

Ratchet and Smokescreen exchanged glances.

“And why would you let us take them?”

“If it makes more sense to you,” Megatron offered, “you may call it spite. Unicron tried to use me to destroy Cybertron. While I no longer care for our planet’s fate one way or another, it will bring me satisfaction to know I have done something to undermine him.”

Ratchet tried not to look too disgusted. Megatron had lost track of his original sentiments long ago. There was no use being surprised at his continued ability to be incorrigible. “I doubt the Nemesis has enough energon left in it to keep a spacebridge open for that long. Bringing Soundwave out of the Shadowzone was drain enough on its reserves,” he pointed out coldly.

“I don’t doubt that you will find a way,” Megatron responded, with just as much ice. “Regardless, I should also let you know there is a certain ruthless, eight-legged femme on one of Cybertron’s moons. She is yours to deal with as you see fit.”

 _“Airachnid?_ …I was wondering where she got off to.” Ratchet shook his head irritably. Did Megatron intend on making _everything_ their problem? “…I can see you have more to say.”

“Indeed.” Megatron sobered suddenly, as if he had just found a reason to drop his ire and speak plainly. “Is it true that Optimus Prime’s spark was extinguished?”

Ratchet’s eyes widened in shock. By his side, Smokescreen flinched, looking at him desperately and then back up at the screen as if expecting the answer to make Megatron turn violent.

The answer didn’t come quite fast enough, but Megatron merely took it as confirmation. When he spoke again, his voice was eerily quiet.

“…I felt it,” he said after a long silence, “after I left Cybertron. The Prime’s signal vanished. The chaos-bringer left me with the ability to sense Primus’ influence, almost the same as I could sense the life-force of others tainted with his influence.” He went quiet again, not quite looking straight at the camera, and then seemed to shake off whatever was bothering him and quickly steeled himself. “Thank you for confirming my suspicions. That is all I have to say to you, Autobots.”

Smokescreen glanced over at Ratchet, and noticed that the old medic had his servos firmly clenched at his sides. Not a good sign. “Wait!” He stepped forwards to shift focus away from Ratchet, and immediately regretted it when the ex-warlord’s gaze fixed on him and left him feeling like a rabbit caught in headlights. “What about Starscream?”

Megatron’s look hardened, and he tilted his head derisively to one side as he enunciated carefully, “What _about_ him?”

The silence stretched on for another long moment.

Megatron shifted. “If that is all, I will put an end to this conversation and take my leave. I will return when I detect space bridge energy from this location.”

“You won’t detect it. That base is cloaked,” Ratchet pointed out.

Megatron gave him a sour look. “There is not a force on this or any world that can evade my sensors. Unicron upgraded me with _many._ But if it will make you feel more secure, I will return in one Earth day.” He stepped forwards and glanced down at the keyboard in front of him, lifting a servo and hovering one bladelike finger over the buttons – then faltered. “Where is the off switch?” he asked, looking (and feeling) somewhat undignified.

“Let me get that!”

“Raf-!” Jack’s arm flailed momentarily in the corner of the screen, trying and failing to catch Rafael’s shirt sleeve as he climbed over the guard rail and leapt over to the keyboard.

The youngest of their human allies quickly found the correct key, but glanced up at the screen before stepping onto it. “Um… Ratchet? We’re okay. But I think you should still drop by.” He glanced over his shoulder, seeing that Megatron had officially lost his patience, and flinched. “See you soon, right?” Without waiting for an answer, Rafael tapped the key with one shoe.

As the screen went dark, Smokescreen gave a relieved sigh. “That was _crazy._ ”

Ratchet wasn’t listening. “I should never have left them,” he muttered, regret etched on his faceplate.

Smokescreen glanced up at the blank display and then winced. “…They seemed fine!” A beat. “…But you’re probably gonna want to go back tomorrow, right?”

“No. Tonight.”

“Oh. …Ratchet, I don’t know. Bee’s having a meeting tonight. He really needs you for that-”

“After the meeting. _Immediately_ after.”

“You don’t want to recharge first?”

Ratchet turned to face him, already firing up a scathing response, but the way Smokescreen was looking at him was anything but bold. In fact it looked like the other Autobot felt a little lost. The words died in his vocaliser.

“…Sorry! Sorry. I get it. I’ll tell Bee.”

“Smokescreen,” Ratchet began stiffly, “monitor duty won’t always involve taking calls from Megatron. You’ll be fine.”

“I know. I know, I just…”

“It’s as I said. I know where I’m needed.” He fixed the younger ‘bot with what he hoped was a reassuring look. “And you don’t need me around. Not all the time. You’ve turned into a fine member of this team,” he admitted, trying not to sound begrudging about it (and smiling very faintly in the process), and gingerly held out his servo. “…You’ll be alright.”

Smokescreen eyed the hand that was offered to him, looking confused. It took a moment for him to register what the point was, and he quickly brightened and took a firm hold, shaking hands in an uncharacteristically reserved manner. He smiled weakly.

“…Thanks, Ratch. Really.”

 

 

***

 

 

Knock Out gave a loud, theatrical sigh and set down the soldering tool he’d been using, resting his servo on the work surface. The other came up to rest gently on his audial. “In case you haven’t noticed, o gracious leader,” he declared, “I’ve got my hands full with _two_ patients and a wing rewiring. What _is_ it?”

 _“First, acting leader,”_ Bumblebee’s voice chastised him over the radio; _“Second… you’re to wake Magnus and bring him to the meeting room. We all need to talk.”_

Knock Out’s optics flickered aside to fix on the wing he’d been working on, most of the casing opened up and the delicate internals spilled out across the workbench. “I’m _busy,”_ he said truthfully. “Repairing a seeker’s wing is delicate work.”

_“He’ll live without ‘em for a little longer. Stop what you’re doing and-“_

“Look,” Knock Out interrupted haughtily, starting to pace alongside the bench as he spoke; _“wings_ I’ve fixed before, but Starscream’s… it’s _tricky._ I’m in the _middle_ of something here.”

_“Starscream is-“_

“The most _un_ pleasant patient I’ve ever worked with! – barring Megatron himself,” he added quickly, and took care to lower his voice. Waking the patient would be more of a hassle than it was worth. “I don’t _like_ this job, but it seems like _crippling someone for life_ isn’t in the Autobot moral code. _And_ may I remind you he’s _archaic? Maybe_ there are replacements in storage, but with his altmode… Look,” he said, forcing his voice to soften a little for fear of angering the Autobot, “I’m _trying_ to do things by the book, but-”

 _“That’s one of the things we need to talk about.”_ Bumblebee interrupted. _“So spare an hour, and we can figure things out.”_

The red medic sighed again, tapping one finger impatiently on the work surface. If he was going to be fired, at least it would be just like them to do it properly. The Autobots may not be much for formalities, but hearing _please_ and _thank you_ a couple more times a day didn’t hurt his ego. And neither, he decided, would being removed from the team in person. Much.

“Fine,” he said eventually. “I’ll be there in… however long it takes to get old Shoulder Towers out of berth.”

 _“See you in a few klicks, then,”_ came the cheerful reply. _“Bee out.”_

Knock Out took a moment to prepare himself, double-checking his finish and brushing idly at some perceived speck of dust on his arm, and then turned to make his way past Starscream into the other room of the medical bay. The jet was unconscious, having slipped into an uneasy recharge once Knock Out had hooked him back up to a nanite transfer. Hopefully he’d _stay_ that way, but just in case, Knock Out had also made sure to lock his wrists to the berth.

As for his other patient…

“Rise and shine, Commander! Bumblebee wants to call a meeting.” Knock Out paused at the door, seeing that Ultra Magnus was in fact already awake, lying on the upright berth with a datapad in his hand, and the medic abruptly flashed him a winning smile. “Ah, good. I thought you’d be in recharge; that makes things _much_ easier. Wouldn’t be a party without _you…”_

“A meeting is not a party.” Magnus frowned, propping himself forwards on one elbow and gingerly attempting to step off the berth.

Knock Out cringed at the realisation he’d have to provide support, but nevertheless he steeled himself and stepped forwards to take Magnus’ arm. “Easy, Commander,” he warned. “If you fall, my finish is _done for.”_

“We have bigger concerns than your _finish,”_ Ultra Magnus said sharply, but it seemed he was willing to trust the ex-Decepticon medic for now, leaning a little on him as he stepped down from the berth with an uncomfortable grunt. “What is it that Bumblebee wants to discuss?”

Knock Out gingerly moved himself under Magnus’ arm properly, letting the Commander use him as a crutch, and reminded himself for the _n_ th time that day that he was trying to make a good impression and that his pride could wait. “Didn’t say. But it sounded fairly urgent, so let’s hurry things along, shall we?”

Magnus was used to doing things by the book. Ratchet had told him to stay on the berth after the incident earlier, but there were certain things he was beginning to understand about the way Knock Out worked in comparison; the younger medic was perhaps less experienced in medicine, but his time with the Decepticons had made him a sharp scientist – and quite a bit more relaxed about medical protocols. Perhaps it should have been more of a worry. But, if Ultra Magnus was to be honest, Knock Out’s habit of letting his patients move a little more freely during their recovery was a blessing in disguise. Not to say Ratchet was overprotective, but… it was sometimes a little too much to expect that one stayed completely still until his say-so.

That was not, however, something Commander Magnus was prepared to admit out loud. Ratchet was a fine medic – perhaps the finest he’d seen. It was simply a matter of differing tactics.

“Has Wheeljack reported?”

Knock Out reached out for the door button as they approached, ending up jabbing it awkwardly with one elbow. “Hmm. He’s the one with the real _low_ altmode, right?” Glancing up, Knock Out realised he was being given a withering look, and forced a smile. “I… haven’t heard from him,” he said sheepishly. “But I’ve been _busy._ You’re better off asking someone else.” There was a pause, during which Ultra Magnus made a dissatisfied noise. He couldn’t help being just a bit curious. “…Why do you ask?”

“He’s been AWOL since this morning. I don’t tolerate my team going off the radar.”

“Well, if he didn’t bridge out, he’s still on-world. You saw what state his ship was in.” He gave a smirk. “I doubt that thing’s flying again with all the repairs in the world.”

Ultra Magnus glanced down at him. “That was mine,” he stated plainly.

Knock Out’s eyes widened for a moment, and then he winced and pulled a face. _“Ooh._ Well. I mean, I’m… sure it’s fixable! …Somehow…”

Magnus stared pointedly at the ceiling and tried to concentrate on walking. It didn’t matter that Knock Out was arrogant, amoral and tactless. If Optimus Prime had shown faith in him, Magnus knew better than to lose his patience. …He just hoped to Primus he had enough of it.

 

 

***

 

 

“With Ultra Magnus’ permission, I’ll call to order the first official meeting of Team Prime and… other representatives,” Bee added politely, glancing over at Predaking. “Now, a lot has happened in just two short days, so we’ll try to keep things simple. After this, I advise everyone on Team Prime to go find somewhere to get a good, solid recharge. We’ll have a lot of work to do getting Cybertron back on its feet. But I’ll need you all to pay close attention to everything covered here. Any questions so far?”

Bumblebee rested his servos on the polished surface of the desk and scanned the room slowly. As official as he sounded, he had his doubts this meeting would go as smoothly as anyone hoped. For one, Predaking being in the room at all was clearly making several members of Team Prime fairly nervous – they all knew things had been tempestuous between them and the Predacons, and no one was foolish enough to believe that one night of alliance, out of necessity and not choice, would change that so quickly.

He’d spent the better part of the day trying to organise Team Prime back into some form of schedule, but everyone had been a little scattered and exhausted from the battle waged against Unicron the night before, and more than a couple of members had disappeared under the radar to go and do some thinking of their own elsewhere. Wheeljack, still not one hundred per cent comfortable with working in such a large team, still hadn’t reported back; but even Bulkhead and Arcee had jumped at the chance to go out and do their jobs alone instead of taking on administrative duties around the Nemesis.

He wasn’t surprised, exactly, and he understood why they’d want to take some time out for themselves, even if it still included work, but the fact remained that even with the team reluctant there was still a lot of less practical work that sorely needed to be done. Perhaps this meeting would solve a few issues, and prevent Ratchet from having to try and be in ten places at once. He hoped so.

Bumblebee realised suddenly that while he’d gotten off-track, no one had put up a hand.

“Alright,” he said quickly, clapping his servos together. Smokescreen jumped. “First off, I’d like to extend a formal welcome to His Majesty, Predaking.” Bumblebee gestured politely in his direction, and Predaking lifted his head in acknowledgement – then looked a little surprised as when he continued, “And I’d also like to thank him. Without his help, we may never have been able to fend off Unicron long enough for Optimus to find a way to trap him. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say we all owe the Predacons our lives.”

Predaking narrowed his eyes and watched him closely for a moment, but there was a slight change in atmosphere and a quiet muttering from some of the other Autobots that made him look around at the others, and to the Predacon leader’s surprise, he was met with slightly guilty looks of agreement.

He glanced back at Bumblebee. “Do not think I have forgotten the part the Autobots played in the destruction of Project Predacon,” he stated sharply, and around the meeting room, several Cybertronians flinched or fell silent – but he seemed to soften, and spoke slowly. “However. You show… appropriate respect.”

Bumblebee nodded at him. “We haven’t forgotten, either. I’d like to speak to you alone after this is over, if that’s alright.” Without waiting for a response this time, he turned back to address the whole room and continued with the meeting. “So. The last time we gathered here, Commander Ultra Magnus was thinking of retiring. I asked him not to. Commander, I know you’re in recovery, but we need to establish a solid idea of what’s going on. Have you thought any more about it?”

Magnus, standing by the door beside the medic who had brought him to the room, had been anticipating the question. “I have. There is not much else to do when confined to a medical berth.” Seeing Bumblebee steel himself (which just lent weight to his decision), the Commander stood a little straighter and made himself speak clearly. Aches and pains be damned; the others needed to hear him say it with all of his usual authority. “I think that with the loss of Prime so fresh in our sparks, the Autobots may not be ready to lose someone with my experience. …Apologies if that sounds headstrong.”

He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling, not quite daring to look anyone in the optics, but Bumblebee tricked him into looking at him when he spoke – and surprisingly it wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

“No, you’re right. We all agree. We need you.” Bumblebee nodded firmly, and Magnus tried to curb his embarrassment. “Me especially. I’m not ready to take on leadership just like that. So it’s settled: I’ll step up as Lieutenant Colonel. And you’ll stay on as Wrecker Commander. Does that sound fair?”

Realising that all eyes were on him, and all of them (save Predaking’s) were welcoming, Magnus had to remind himself of his military experience just to keep the relieved smile from his face. In truth, he hadn’t actually been all that certain about retirement – it just seemed like everyone was expecting it. He knew now that he was wrong. “Very fair,” he acknowledged, as curtly as he could manage.

Bumblebee smiled – a light, infectious kind of smile that everyone was still getting used to after getting to know him with his mouthplate up for so long – and Ultra Magnus quickly looked away again. At his side, Knock Out was staring up at him with an accusing smirk that he didn’t quite care for.

“Okay. Next on the agenda is… Knock Out.”

The medic tore his taunting look away from the Commander and vented slowly, head cocked arrogantly to one side. “I’m fired.”

“Um,” Bumblebee said. “No. I was going to talk about your badge.”

“…My badge?” Knock Out stared blankly at him for a moment before glancing down and, suddenly, perking up. “My _badge!_ Of _course,”_ he purred. “I’ll remove it myself. Not an issue. I don’t know why I didn’t do it earlier, I-“

“Slow down there, Knock Out.” Bee looked apologetic, and the medic couldn’t fathom why that made him so nervous. “Ratchet can take it off for you. _And_ get you a new one.” Knock Out’s expression shifted to one of disbelief. “…An _Autobot_ badge,” he clarified.

Arcee made an amused noise at the red medic’s continued confusion. “We’re not throwing you out of an airlock,” she quipped. “You’re an Autobot. What, did you think we hadn’t noticed the way you’ve been throwing yourself at our feet?”

“I have been throwing myself at _no one’s_ feet!” Knock Out snapped, shifting to examine his claws. “I just take pride in my work.”

“Like the pits you do,” Ratchet cut in gruffly. “The only thing you take pride in is your paint and your wheels. The only reason you’ve been doing your job at all is because you thought we’d scrap you if you didn’t follow orders!” After a moment, Ratchet became aware of the distinct silence that followed his words. It wasn’t just Knock Out who was staring at him any more, and he backpedalled with an irritated splutter. _“…Although,_ that’s not to say you don’t do an… _adequate_ job,” he stumbled. “He is cleared for full-time duty. I’ll replace his badge before I leave.”

Knock Out’s stare turned back to Bumblebee, practically begging for a better explanation, but the acting leader had none.

“What do you want us to say? Welcome to the team. You already proved we can trust you.”

“But – but, isn’t there some kind of initiation ceremony? Some kind of trial?”

“You heard Optimus,” Bulkhead piped up suddenly, sounding stern. “The big guy didn’t just forget you were there, ya know. That speech was for you, too.”

The medic went silent at that. Yes, he’d been listening, though he’d been planning on pretending it hadn’t struck him quite as hard as it did. Before that moment, he hadn’t been sure of how long he intended to be with the Autobots – heck, even _after_ the speech he’d been waiting for someone to remember he was there and abruptly kick him off the team – but it had simply been a case of buttering up the winners and avoiding getting his finish scrapped (or worse). Same old routine. Morals could get slagged, for all he cared; self-preservation was at the top of the list.

The speech, though. _Every sentient being possesses the capacity for change._ Coming from anyone else, he’d have laughed it off, rolled his eyes, given some clever quip in response, but… there had been something so incredibly piercing about the calm, truthful way Optimus Prime had looked at him that morning. He wasn’t sure where his morals had _gone_ any more.

Knock Out let his hand drop from his hip and somehow managed not to look as humbled as he felt. “Understood,” he lied. “Or… noted. Acknowledged. _Whatever._ Can I go now?”

Arcee smacked him on the shoulder.

“Not yet,” Bumblebee answered quickly, looking a little exasperated (but certainly not surprised) at the ex-Decepticon’s lack of ceremony. “The next topic is about your patient. Once we’ve figured this out, _then_ you can go. …Ratchet, do you want to take over on this one?”

“No,” he replied simply, “but I will.” He approached the table and put down a datapad, sliding it across to Bumblebee. “Specs on Starscream’s frametype. I found them in the Nemesis database, after some digging.” Ratchet shook his head. “He’s somewhat… well…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is obsolete,” Knock Out pitched helpfully. “But you would know, of course.”

“I could still take _you_ down with my servos clamped,” Ratchet growled. “ _But,_ you’re not wrong. Finding replacement parts is difficult enough when your land-based vehicle mode is outdated. But Starscream is a jet. He’s going to be much tougher to fix. And then there’s the topic no one seems willing to discuss.”

Knock Out nodded, for once catching onto the importance of what they were covering, and decided to clear things up for the few Autobots in the room still unsure. “Like anyone else with the slightest bit of sense, Starscream scanned an _Earth_ altmode. Very useful for when you’re actually on Earth, but virtually impossible to find replacements for without going _back_ there.”

“He _could_ live without some of that stuff, though, right?” Bulkhead ventured. “Same as one of us losing a door.”

Ratchet opened his mouth, but Knock Out replied for him. “Have you ever seen a jet fly without _all_ of its parts? They can’t. At least, not very well. A jet has to be airtight, it’s all tied up in balance and airspeed and… all that other scrap Starscream will no doubt complain about if we told him we couldn’t fix him.”

Arcee frowned. “Someone’s going to have to get in touch with Agent Fowler. For _Starscream_ to fly. _”_ She shook her head coldly. “Even when he’s not a threat, he still manages to be  complete waste of everyone’s time. Do we even want him to fly again? Can’t we just…” She trailed off stiffly, waving a hand. Everyone knew what she meant, but no one was quite willing to acknowledge it. Somehow it just felt… wrong, even for someone like Starscream.

Someone was going to have to say what they were all thinking. And, Knock Out decided, it might as well be him. If they insisted they had no further suspicions about him, then now was as good a time as any to test that.

He folded his arms, and spoke slowly and carefully. “You put me in charge of Starscream’s recovery – presumably because you all have better things to do. Well, I say he won’t make a full recovery _until_ he can fly again. We’re talking psychological, not physical,” he said, accompanying his words with a frustrated hand gesture. “Look. I don’t like him either – no one alive right now _does!_ But if you want me to start acting like – well, like an _Autobot,_ then… then I…” …It was no use, he realised. He wasn’t _used_ to making this kind of a speech. If Starscream got scrapped, nobody would feel more relieved not to have him breathing in their space any more than Knock Out, especially when the old air commander seemed _intent_ on trying to tempt him back on his side every five minutes. Knock Out made an exasperated noise, about to say _never mind, forget I said anything,_ but Ratchet stepped in to finish for him.

“None of us like the idea of Starscream getting back up on his struts,” he affirmed, “but there’s one thing we’re all forgetting – and we shouldn’t be. _What would Optimus think?”_

The reluctant signs of agreement from around the room only told Knock Out what he already knew: he’d been right. Even if he was only going through the moral motions out of some perceived obligation, it still made him _right._ It was just that only Ratchet was experienced in knowing how to drop the Prime’s name with just enough weight.

Bumblebee spent another moment or two skimming down the list of specifications before lowering the datapad and frowning. “Our medics are right. If we didn’t help Starscream, it wouldn’t be about the hassle, or about not being able to. It’d be about _spite._ And Optimus would never have wanted that, especially after his last words.” He placed the datapad on the table and straightened his back, taking on an authoritative tone – one he was still getting to grips with. Magnus didn’t seem to notice (or, more likely, mind) that it was mostly borrowed from him. “So. Taking that into account, I’d like to ask Ratchet to take Starscream _with_ him when he returns to Earth tonight.”

A wave of anxious muttering swept over the Autobots, and Arcee’s voice was predictably the loudest.

“Bee, _no._ You can’t. Starscream is too dangerous to be allowed back on Earth, even with his weapons disabled. You can’t really expect-“

“What about the children?” Ratchet demanded, shocked that Bumblebee would even suggest it. “I will not allow Starscream anywhere near Jack, Miko or Rafael. _Especially_ not tonight.”

“I’d sooner scrap him than let him in that hangar,” Bulkhead agreed, pounding a fist into his palm. “Not happening.”

Bumblebee found himself at a loss. He’d dropped the big point too soon, and no one would let him _finish…_

Predaking, unimpressed with the Autobots’ unruly atmosphere, quietly stepped forwards – and slammed a fist very suddenly onto the table. The resounding noise of metal on metal almost seemed to echo in the silence it had created, and only when all eyes were on him did Predaking lift his hand from the dented surface and straighten back up.

“I am not here to listen to you bicker!” he boomed, glaring boldly around at the others. “I came for the sake of my team’s future, _not_ Starscream’s. My business with him was finished when I left him broken by the throne. I understood that you Autobots had your own problems to fix, and I was prepared to wait – but you are testing my patience the longer this meeting continues!” Seeing that he still had their attention, Predaking willed himself to be calmer. The Autobots understood their folly. _Good._ “If you will permit me to say my piece, Autobots, perhaps you will find less reason to fear Starscream and more reason to consider my proposal.”

Bumblebee’s optics cycled decisively as Predaking cast him a prompting look. “…Of course. My apologies, your highness. Go ahead.”

Predaking nodded. He hadn’t asked permission, and didn’t require it, but it did no harm to remind the Autobot leader to show him the respect he was due.

“Since our last meeting, I saw fit to investigate where my new allies, Darksteel and Sky Lynx, had sprung from. This led me to encounter Shockwave – and I have persuaded him to continue with Project Predacon under my guidance.” He paused, glancing around. “If anyone has any issues with the idea of more Predacons roaming this planet, I advise you to keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“We don’t,” Bumblebee said quickly. “Predaking, we really should apologise-“

“Keep your apologies to yourselves, also,” he growled. “What is done is done. If you wish to heal the rift you tore between yourselves and my kind, I suggest you put less of your energy into empty apologies, and more into actions. You may _start_ by allowing us unrestricted access to your spacebridge.” He made a slow gesture with his servo; the metallic, scissorlike noise of his claws uncurling inadvertently reminded everyone just how easy it would be for him to take what he wanted by force. And yet, that didn’t seem to be his intention, despite his outburst a few moments prior. “The planet Earth still has remnants of ancient Predacons buried under its surface. Shockwave can provide coordinates, and once we are on-world we can fly anywhere. All we require from you Autobots is the means to travel between Cybertron and Earth.” He paused. “…Which would mean, if you require it, I could escort Starscream myself. You are aware how little threat he could possibly pose to me.”

While Bumblebee and the others considered the beast monarch’s words, Ratchet was the first to speak up.

“It seems everyone wants to use the spacebridge as of late,” he remarked. “But we’re all forgetting a few very important details. Bridging so far across space will require a massive amount of energy. Energy we may not be able to locate and process quickly enough to power a spacebridge for so long, even _with_ the Eradicons’ help. That’s what’s been bothering me about Megatron’s demand. One short burst is one thing, but to keep it open… _well._ ”

Predaking narrowed his eyes, deciding to be more constructive. If a working relationship was to form between Team Prime and Team Dragon, perhaps he would have to make a few more accommodations. “Shockwave managed to power his laboratories and create _me_ in the long years Cybertron was dead and cold. If you require efficiency, it may be wise to ask his advice.”

Bulkhead frowned. “Yeah? And why would he help us?”

Predaking found himself bristling, for a reason he didn’t fully understand. But, regardless, they were wrong to question him at all. He rolled with it. “It may surprise you to know, it was Shockwave’s suggestion that I lead the Predacons to your aid. But more importantly, Shockwave is now a part of Team Dragon. He is under _my_ command – and he will do as he is _ordered.”_

There was a low murmur from a few of the Autobots around the room. It was, Predaking realised, the first time he had used his new team handle in front of them; he heard it used again, as a couple of the Autobots repeated it under their vocalisers in questioning tones, and the uncomfortable, bristling feeling came back. When he looked over at Bumblebee, however, the Autobot was smiling.

“Team Dragon,” he repeated, and when he seemed like he approved of the way it sounded, it took Predaking off-guard. “I’m glad you’ve found something to fight for, your highness.”

Predaking eyed him hesitantly, and then slowly relaxed. It had occurred to him before that Bumblebee might simply be trying to to use clever words to get on his good side, just like everybody who had come before him – but it was only now that he felt like he may be ready to put aside that suspicion. There was something believably earnest in the way Bumblebee spoke to him, and indeed had addressed him by his title at the burial ground just the day before. Tricking him with a fake Immobiliser had been a necessity, he realised, but speaking to him as an equal had not.

Predaking looked away and opted to remain quiet.

As the murmurs died down, Bumblebee vented slowly. “Then it’s settled. But you all didn’t let me finish. I would never suggest that Starscream  be sent to Earth unless there was someone to monitor him closely. And I was thinking… well, what about Agent Fowler?”


	11. a long day's end

“Now remember: don’t commit to any negotiations unless they’ve been signed for.”

“It’s all done, Ratch. I had Predaking give a voiceprint right in front of me, and the others will do anything he says. …And so will Starscream, if it comes to it.”

“Hrmm,” Ratchet responded, not entirely convinced. “I won’t ask if it bothers you that a voiceprint isn’t exactly binding. What about the… vehicons?” The word was still unfamiliar in his mouth, at least without a sour tinge to it. He gave Bumblebee a pointed look. He was _trying_ to be civil.

Bumblebee smiled encouragingly. It was useless on Ratchet, but he was doing his best to learn the leaderly role. They’d both need practice. “All accounted for. They’ll all be staying in their old quarters until we can refurbish a real building. …Maybe permanently, if they decide they want to.”

“Mm. And the bridge?”

“When Predaking gets back with Shockwave tomorrow, we’ll see about tweaking the fuel efficiency. We’ll figure something out before Megatron’s deadline. Don’t worry.”

Ratchet shifted the Iacon relic in his hands nervously. He’d never used the Apex Armour before, and honestly didn’t much want to, but Bumblebee suggested he take it anyway. Knowing he’d be dealing with an upgraded Megatron was what had made him agree. “I’ll make sure the children are out of the way,” he said quickly, interrupting that thought. “…And… Wheeljack?”

Bumblebee went quiet. He’d received a message from Raf just after their meeting, and finding out just where the Wrecker had gone did little for his mood.

“…I haven’t decided yet.” A grave note crept into his voice. “He wants space,” he said carefully.

“Clearly.” Ratchet did not sound approving.

Bumblebee sighed. “We’ve tried getting in touch with him directly. No luck. He must have switched his comm link off. But Smokescreen is on monitor duty until morning – he’ll let us know if we hear from him.”

Ratchet shook his head. “He won’t report. I’ll talk to him. …I regret not installing a tracking device on that ‘bot when I had the chance,” he muttered irritably.

“Because that worked out so well for the Decepticons, right?” Bumblebee smiled, recognising Ratchet’s disapproving tone for what it really was and offering some reassurance instead. “He’ll be fine. We all know he’s been through worse.”

Ratchet jabbed a fist on a door button and turned off into the bridge room. “He’s not the only one I’m concerned about. You are aware, aren’t you, that Ultra Magnus has had some problems settling in?”

Smokescreen turned to greet them with a friendly smile, but hearing that they were having a serious conversation, he stayed quiet.

“Of course. But Ultra Magnus is tough. And now he understands how we work-“

Ratchet waved a hand. “Knowing what we say we are to one another doesn’t help anyone if we don’t act accordingly.” He turned to flash Bumblebee a searching look as the younger Autobot headed over to the groundbridge controls. “You are aware he arrived at the meeting with Knock Out, aren’t you? I doubt that was by choice.” He wagged a finger scoldingly.

“No one else was around.” Bumblebee glanced up from the control panel, uneasy. Bulkhead hadn’t stood near Magnus in the meeting, either. Perhaps Ratchet was right to be worried. “…I’ll ask Bulkhead to stay close to base. He’s been working himself pretty hard anyway.”

The crackle of the groundbridge sprang into life in front of him, and Ratchet stared at it wistfully, steeling himself for whatever might be waiting for him on the other side. _Rafael said they’re fine. They’re **fine.**_

Smokescreen broke the silence with a hopeful cough of his vocaliser. “So, you’re leaving now?”

“I am.”

“You’re gonna come back and visit, right?”

“I will,” he replied, his voice taking on a prompting lilt. He felt he already knew what the young ‘bot was going to ask.

“Do you think… you can bring the kids?”

Bumblebee looked over at Smokescreen sternly, about to remind him of all the reasons that was a tall order, but Ratchet spoke first with an amused little smile.

“I’m sure if I needle Agent Fowler enough, something can be arranged in order for them to survive here. Though it would probably better to get that in writing _before_ we tell him about his guest,” he added thoughtfully. “I’ll see what I can do.” Seeing Bumblebee was about to raise the concerns they were all seemingly ignoring, Ratchet flashed him a plain look. “Don’t pretend you weren’t hoping, Bumblebee. Besides – they deserve to see Cybertron without it being an empty shell. And I know Arcee would agree.”

Bumblebee held up his servos in defeat. “…Okay. I admit it – I want to see them, too. Just…” He went quiet, watching Ratchet head for the groundbridge portal and struggling to come up with the right words. “…Take care of Raf.”

“Of course,” Ratchet said, shifting awkwardly.

The Autobots’ leader-in-training went quiet for a moment, knowing this would be out of line, but he felt he had to say it. “I’m not saying you won’t try. I just want to make sure you… Look, I know it was a while ago, but that time when we were separated – he needs to know it’ll be-”

“I know what you’re referring to,” Ratchet said sharply, “and I will _never_ make that mistake again.” Bumblebee gave a humourless, monosyllabic laugh of acknowledgement, and Ratchet flashed him a knowing look over his shoulder. “I’ll see you all again very soon.”

“Don’t make Arcee hunt you down.” Bumblebee barely hesitated before honouring Ratchet with a quick salute, which Smokescreen quickly mimicked.

Ratchet walked forwards through the crackling gateway, and the two held position until the bridge snapped closed behind him.

On the other side, Ratchet’s mood was immediately dampened as he was met with the empty silence of Hangar E. For a moment, he just stood in the artificial lighting, staring around at the place as though he hadn’t been here just a day before. He noted the bent edge of the hangar door where it had been forced, and the worrying silence – he’d sent a message ahead of time to Jack’s phone, telling them he’d be here, but either they hadn’t got the message or…

Ratchet quite deliberately blinked away that particular train of thought and reminded himself what time it was here. The children were probably just at home, sleeping or doing last-minute homework, and he had no reason to panic unnecessarily. He’d just call June to make sure, and…

“Ratchet!”

His servo dropped from its attempt at patching him through to Ms. Darby’s cell, and he whirled around for the source of the noise with an unusual sense of urgency. “Rafael!” he called in response, stooping immediately as the young boy came careening through a side door and shifting the Iacon relic he was carrying under one arm. He held out his free hand almost instinctively, palm-up, and without skipping a beat Raf leapt on board. Ratchet felt a rush of relief at the knowledge that he was safe.

“You came back!”

Unable to keep himself from smiling, the old medic lifted his hands up to eye level, giving Raf a quick once-over. “I said I would, Rafael!” He cleared his vocaliser, trying to shake off the wavering note in his voice, and tried not to beam at him too much. “Are you injured?”

“No – I’m fine. Everyone’s-”

“I should have come sooner,” he said, sounding breathless. “They needed me on Cybertron, but I can assure you, from this moment on-“

“It’s okay,” Raf cut in. “Megatron’s gone. He didn’t do anything. We’re fine.” A beat. “Promise.”

It was almost as if an unfamiliar type of panic had set in, like he felt as though he had to make up for lost time but didn’t quite know _how._ Ratchet gave a dissatisfied hum. “You should have left with Wheeljack as soon as-”

Rafael hesitantly rested his palm gently on one of Ratchet’s thumbs. Almost instantly, the old Autobot seemed to run out of steam, looking a little lost – and relieved. He was overreacting. Rafael was fine. The children were _fine._

“Fowler’s agents said we should stay put… Wheeljack said it’d be okay.” He trailed off, looking uneasy. “Things are kind of… weird. You might not be getting a welcome home. I mean – back.”

Ratchet studied him closely for a moment, and Rafael almost seemed to shy away from the intense stare he was being given. All at once, Ratchet lowered his hand and held Rafael close to his chest, ensuring there was no way the boy would fall (and _not,_ he insisted to himself, because it was the closest thing to a hug that he could manage). “Well. Apparently, I can’t leave any of you alone for five klicks. I shudder to think what the rest of Team Prime will do _without_ me from now on.”

Raf brightened immediately, not quite daring to ask if Ratchet was serious in case it ruined the illusion. He carefully sat down to avoid overbalancing as Ratchet began moving towards the dented hangar door, and after a few strides he turned to look up at the old Autobot and gave a weary smile.

“We missed you, Ratchet. …Like I said, things are weird, so the others might not say it. But we’re all glad you came back.”

For a second or two Ratchet almost pretended not to hear, his optics darting up and to the right as if to escape the truthful stare he was being given, but it only took him so long to swallow his pride and force himself to return the look. He’d had practice by now.

“This is where I’m needed,” he said slowly – and then, with a firm nod: “Cybertron will be fine without me. And I will manage quite well without it. Your planet may not have the technology I’m used to, Rafael, but it has… other things. There isn’t much place on Cybertron now for a- a grumpy old field medic, not with a new generation on the way.” He paused, sharing a knowing smile with the young human. “Apparently, _your_ generation doesn’t seem to mind.”

Rafael laughed lightly, in an agreeable sort of way. He seemed to understand what Ratchet meant, even without all of the history to work with. Perhaps it helped that he _wanted_ Ratchet to belong here just as much as he did, or Jack, or Miko.

Ratchet supposed it tied in with the idea of _family_ that Rafael had explained to him so many months ago.

As he began to head across the airfield following Rafael’s directions, Ratchet found himself quickly accompanied by a group of humans in uniform, two pairs falling into pace wordlessly on either side of him. No one seemed like they had an explanation, or even that they’d been ordered – it seemed possible that this was some kind of silent attempt at reassuring him that the humans had the situation under control. He doubted it would have been different had any other Autobot stepped through the ground bridge.

Security was not exactly lax here, he realised, but it would have done no good for them to have been in the vicinity when Megatron had visited. The honourary Autobot humans may have gotten a free pass due to their history, and whatever twisted form of respect Megatron might have, but he didn’t want to consider whether that pass would extend to any military personnel who might try shooting at him. And Optimus would never have allowed the results.

He addressed them gruffly after a moment’s hesitation, too tired out from the day’s events to bother trying to guess at protocol. “I don’t require an escort team.”

“With all due respect, sir, we were ordered to follow Esquivel.”

Ratchet gave a low hum. “By Agent Fowler?”

“By Autobot Wheeljack, sir.”

It took Ratchet a moment to mask his surprise and go back to looking straight ahead. “I see.” In his palm, he felt Rafael tense… “Good,” he finished, reluctantly.

At the reassurance that there would be no arguments there, Raf let out a sigh of relief.

 

 

***

 

 

“Alright, Starscream, we need to talk.” Knock Out strode into the room with a lot more confidence than he felt, servos curled into fists, and slowed to a stop at the edge of Starscream’s berth. He steeled himself, then snapped his fingers quickly and repeatedly over his patient’s face and loomed over him with a menacing grin. “Rise and shine!”

The ex-commander blinked awake, a lot more alert than Knock Out had expected him to be, and focused on him quickly with his one good eye. “What? What is it this time?” He did a mental check, and scowled. “Knock Out, it’s past midnight. Shouldn’t you be off drinking with eradicons somewhere?”

“I do actually intend on recharging tonight, so I’ll keep it short.” Knock Out folded his arms carefully, his pointed fingertips tapping rhythmically on the flame decals thoughtfully before he continued. “First things first. I have a new badge.”

Losing interest almost immediately (another warning sign Knock Out was slowly becoming hyper-aware of), Starscream let his head rest back on the berth and looked bored. “I didn’t know you bothered wearing one.”

Knock Out gave him a sarcastic look. “ _Digital_ badge, Starscream. I’m still not going to weld an identifier to my hood, it’d ruin the aesth- _look,_ the badge isn’t the point,” he finished harshly. “The point is, I’m officially an Autobot, you’re officially _my_ patient until tomorrow morning, and… it’s now perfectly within my jurisdiction to tell you a few things.”

Starscream shifted suddenly, pushing himself up a little more on the berth as though it made any difference whether he slouched or not when he was pinned in place. The look he gave Knock Out was nothing short of disgusted. “It’s going to be one of _those_ conversations, is it?”

“I’ll need a solid recharge before I have the time to waste dodging clichés. And _you_ don’t have that long to wait. So I suggest you keep your mouth shut and listen, because I’m doing you a favour.” Favour never did much for Starscream, but at least this time it seemed to get his attention. Knock Out almost felt guilty at giving him hope for a moment, but then the feeling of stamping it out again might almost make up for the grievances he’d endured under Starscream’s command. He’d be lying if he claimed he wasn’t still sour. “Now. I just finished sitting in on a meeting and I have all the _juicy_ details, but you only need to know the big picture: tomorrow morning, you’re being transferred to Earth. Considering I was put in charge of your recovery in an official capacity, it looks like I’ll be joining you, but only until I’m not needed. After that, _your_ fate lies in the hands of a bunch of fleshlings. Excited?”

Starscream countered his smug, expectant look with a carefully-guarded expression of grim consideration – and then reclined again, looking away. Knock Out gave a faintly disapproving hum at the anti-climax.

“Nothing to say? Or are you looking forward to making human contact? If memory serves, you were the one who tried to team up with the _skinjob_ that broke Breakdown.”

The hook was obvious, and to his credit, Starscream didn’t fall for it. “A mistake,” he replied slowly. “I’ve made a lot of them, Knock Out. If you’re only here to rub in the fact that I no longer have any control over anything, consider your task well and truly accomplished.” A pause. “And leave, if you’re quite finished.” Every word was grated out through gritted denta, and he refused to look at Knock Out for more than a moment.

The medic gave up on his attempts at poking the hornet’s nest, registering that the hornets themselves were well and truly not home, and his expression lost its edge.

“Well, then.” He sighed finally. Then, with little ceremony, he reached over to click down a thumb on the mechanism that unlocked the berth’s energy cuffs.

Starscream tensed as they disappeared and it took him a moment of deep suspicion before he raised his arms to rub tentatively at his wrists, not daring to step down just yet. “I thought you wanted them to trust you.”

“You won’t run,” Knock Out stated plainly. “Or fly.” Starscream didn’t make eye contact, probably because it was true, and the medic continued. “Shall we take a walk?”

Starscream gingerly climbed down from the berth, staggering an awkward little half-step as he tried to find his balance again, and immediately Knock Out’s hand was on the bare shoulder where a pauldron should be. “Fine. Tell me about this… human involvement. Not that it will do me any good to know, considering.”

The medic took his hand back quickly, and they walked slowly together out into the Nemesis corridor like absolutely nothing had changed.

The illusion was broken as soon as Knock Out opened his mouth. Mainly because it had never had to be up to him to speak first.

“You remember that human you… interrogated? The _funny_ one. You complained about him a lot.” He met Starscream’s plain look with a matching one, and continued. “As I understand it, he’ll be your supervisor while you carry out a few years of community service.”

Starscream squinted at him suspiciously. “What kind.” It was more of a demand than a question, really, and Knock Out rolled with it.

“No clue,” he said lightly. “But if you want my opinion, probably transport. Or maybe teaching fleshlings to fly straight. Who knows?” The sports car shrugged his shoulders casually, taking the conversation one step at a time. Unbeknownst to Starscream, he was starting to handle the old ‘con with velvet gloves. “At least everyone will be following procedure. You won’t be told to do anything until _after_ you’ve made a reasonable recovery. Bumblebee will make sure of that. You really should be thanking him.”

Starscream grunted. “Oh, _yes,_ do tell him of my undying gratitude.” There was a long pause. “…Continue.”

Knock Out did so. “The upside is, since your altmode originated on Earth, Fowler or whatever his name is will be able to provide everything we need in order to finish the job. …I’d suggest an upgrade, but considering how possessive you were of your arm…”

“Out of the question.”

“Why?” Sensing the question had been unexpected, he attempted to fluff it out a little. “I mean, I’d understand if it was Cybertronian like Soundwave’s or Megatron’s, but-“

Starscream cleared his vocaliser with an internal rattle that was indicative of his missing ventilation piece, and picked his words carefully. “I’ve grown somewhat… used to this one.” He paused for a second, and then folded his hands at his back with faked nonchalance. “A new aerial alt mode is a touch more difficult to recalibrate than anything _you’re_ used to.”

They both knew he’d have to recalibrate, anyway, after his wings were re-affixed. Knock Out didn’t point this out.

“Well, there’s a booming interest in vintage automobiles. Maybe an archaic plane will fit right in.”

Starscream scoffed, and Knock Out smirked at him. He considered that reaction as a distinct improvement.

For a while they just walked together, side by side, and said nothing. It was impossible now to pretend that this conversation wasn’t weighted. This marked the end of an era, a _big_ one, and neither of them seemed to know how to address that. So they didn’t.

When they passed a familiar administration room, and memories of Terrorcons and unexpected compliments threatened to loom in their processors, Starscream coughed again.

“So. What was this? Some pitiful attempt at converting me? You should know you’re a horrible conversationalist.”

“Says the master of monologues,” Knock Out quipped begrudgingly. “Anyway, no. Resist all you like. I just thought you might want to know what’s in store.” He glanced over at the jet with a cautious smirk. “Have you considered that not everything anyone says to you is for some personal agenda?”

Starscream _laughed,_ a quick bark of rasping amusement, and immediately the tension was gone. _“That_ will be the day. Go on. Why are you _really_ trying to appeal to my spark?” He leaned over interestedly, one set of claws hitched close to his chest in an inquiring pose and the others still held neatly behind his back.

The medic’s smirk turned into a grin and he tipped his head on one side, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Alright, so I thought having a contact over on Earth might be useful. You try asking their real medic to secure things like carnauba wax. I figured I’d forego the lectures and trade news updates instead.”

Starscream chuckled lightly, lured into a less hunched posture as the gravity of the conversation left them both, and then the look he flashed tentatively at Knock Out was amicable and wary and _searching_ all at once.

“So this is how it is, is it? You use me for smuggling vanity products, and I use you as an informant.” He sounded amused. “Next you’ll be telling me we’re to meet under the light of a full moon and trade dirt on our superiors.”

Knock Out smiled charmingly back at him, not even blinking. “If you insist,” he pronounced daintily, in a voice that normally drove Starscream to rage faster than a change of gears. The jet simply held his gaze. They both knew there was more going on here than immature teasing. “Though I’m sure we can be a little less picky than that. Instead of under a full moon… say, an airfield and a quiet afternoon?”

Starscream just kept looking at him, one eyebrow slightly raised and an almost hopeful little smile on his face. “Perhaps if I find the time between tormenting humans and hoarding energon.”

“I was hoping you’d give them hell,” Knock Out admitted. “You almost sounded like you were going to make it _easy_ for them.”

Starscream gave a nasty, self-satisfied little grin. “Me? Cooperate with my inferiors? It’s almost as if you’ve never met me, Doctor.” The smile vanished quickly as he realised Knock Out was pulling to a halt, and it took him a moment or two to register where they were. “These are… my quarters,” he said carefully, the empty sockets at his back trying to dip a pair of wings that weren’t there. “Ahah… you’re not going to make me clear out, are you? It might take a while.”

Knock Out merely responded by jabbing the door button and gesturing plainly with his other servo. “You only have a few hours, Starscream. I suggest you use them to recharge. Tomorrow morning will be busy.”

His one working red optic studied the interior of the room like he expected something to jump out and bite him, and then flicked over to give Knock Out a wary look. “Really?”

The medic folded his arms and had the sense to look annoyed. “What, do you want me to fetch an energon drip? You’re already healed enough to sleep off the berth. I need you out of the medbay in case I actually have to use it for something _important._ ”

“No.” Starscream glanced back at his room, and then gingerly stepped through the door. And then: “…Thank you.” His voice was awkward, shifty, like he’d tried to tack it onto the _no_ and not quite caught the back of it in time, and Knock Out stared at him.

For a long time, neither of them moved. Starscream’s spark almost dropped out of his chest when Knock Out finally gave a forced shrug – one they both knew wasn’t as disinterested as it looked.

“You’re welcome.”

On the way back to his own room, Knock Out tried to update Starscream’s medical file and found he was no longer sure what to write in it. In the end, he settled for something simple: _Improvements all-round._

He didn’t bother specifying whether that was part of the physical or mental category. He didn’t suppose it mattered. And if the Autobots’ _real_ medic had any complaints, he could take them to a scrapyard; if it was his job, it was his job, and now was as good a time as any to start exercising his jurisdiction.

 

 

***

 

 

“You have no idea what this is about, Jack! _Ugh._ You know, if push came to shove, I totally know which _Jack_ I’d choose.”

“Don’t go there, Miko, I’m not gettin’ involved,” a gruff voice interrupted.

“You’re _already_ involved!” Jack snapped. “Don’t you get it, Wheeljack? Look. The war is over, and you don’t need us any more.” He grasped for a better way of phrasing it, sighed, and gave up. “We don’t need a Cybertronian Wrecker. We need Fowler, or – or my mom, or – _school._ And believe me, this? This does _not_ count,” he added, gesturing frustratedly at the scene playing out in front of him. Miko glanced up from the datapad she was studying and _scowled._

“Watch it, kid.”

“-Miko has an assignment due in _next week_ that she hasn’t even started-“

“You’re such an idiot! I don’t have to do it, Jack, I’m not-“

“Yes! You _do!_ Miko, this is a huge part of your grade-“

Ratchet glanced down at the youngest human sitting on his hand, flashing him a questioning look, but Rafael just shrugged. Whatever this was, it wasn’t anything Raf could solve.

Steeling himself for any reaction he might get, Ratchet waited for their escort personnel to unlock the door to Hangar C, and ducked through before it had even finished opening.

Dead silence fell on the group waiting inside.

Jack trailed off on whatever retort he’d been about to come out with, and turned to follow Miko’s bewildered stare. When he saw Ratchet, his brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Miko herself was standing on a datapad, the screen lighting her up from below, and from what Ratchet could see it was displaying medical information. Wheeljack was sitting in the corner, one hand on his knee, and after a brief glance up he went back to watching Miko as though Ratchet’s pointed stare meant very little to him.

“Well,” Ratchet said after a minute, “it’s good to know you ditched your duties _and_ proper medical aftercare, Wheeljack.” The Wrecker lifted a hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t dignify that with a real response. “As for you two…”

Miko had been looking almost excited for a second, but all at once her expression darkened and she held up her hand between them like she’d suddenly remembered she had planned to be angry. “Talk to the hand, doc-bot, ‘cause I’m _not_ interested. You totally bailed on us. At least Wreckers stick together.” She made a point of not looking at him, focusing instead on the glowing screen of the datapad she was standing on. “Okay, Jackie, it says you gotta test for seam lock next. That’s like… joint stiffness, right?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He held out his arm. “It’s when your processor doesn’t connect right to your T-cog any more.” Miko watched keenly as the plating shifted mildly upwards and outwards a little, then snapped back into place neatly. “But mine’s fine, see?”

“If my research on human medicine is correct, seam lock can be compared to nerve damage,” Ratchet chimed in. Miko shot him a glare, which he deliberately ignored. “And we already know Wheeljack doesn’t have seam lock, thanks to the extensive medical scan I gave him back on Cybertron. Whatever he’s teaching you, it can wait,” he snapped, flashing the Wrecker a warning look. It was met with a deadpan stare, but then Ratchet hadn’t really expected him to be concerned. “Miko. Jack. Why don’t you two tell me what’s been going on around here since I left?”

Jack shrugged sullenly and managed to look about as sour as a teenager could manage. “Not really your business, Ratch.”

“Um, _Jack,_ he just asked us a question. Why _don’t_ we tell him? Maybe he can wave his magic scalpel and operate on your brain – you need an upgrade anyway! Okay, Doc, here’s the deal.” She whirled around to face him and stuck her hands on her hips. Raf watched uneasily from Ratchet’s palm. “First everyone else ditches us to go fight for Cybertron, AKA the _coolest battle ever,_ without inviting us! Then you take an extension on your vaycay to play doctor to _Starscream_ with your new best friend Knock Out _. ‘Cons!_ Oh, yeah, Smokescreen told us! We’ve been _texting.”_ She dug her phone out of her pocket and waggled it up at him pointedly. “You guys _bailed_ on us for _‘Cons._ You didn’t even _call.”_

“Miko,” Ratchet said, “if you’d let me explain-“

She made an angry noise and stamped her foot on the datapad’s power button, shutting it off. “Maybe we don’t want an explanation! Maybe we’re okay with Wheeljack, since he actually came back for us! ‘Cause Wreckers stick _together,_ get it?”

Wheeljack’s optics flicked up to give Ratchet a knowing look, but Ratchet frowned and said it anyway.

“Oh, is that what you call sticking together? Because from where I’m standing, he left his commanding officer and his teammate to sneak off to Earth without so much as a by-your-leave. Ultra Magnus and Bulkhead are the ones who have been _‘ditched’_ , Miko.” Ratchet ignored the eye-roll he got in response, and stooped to place Rafael safely on the ground. He could feel himself getting animated. “You’re correct: it wasn’t fair of me to leave you three alone. But as far as we knew, Earth was safe, once and for all – and for us, it was more than a matter of life and death as individuals. We almost lost Cybertron, _again,_ and I am _sorry_ that in the process of ensuring Ultra Magnus and the others had a reliable medical practitioner – and being involved in a serious fight with _Unicron himself_ – you three had to deal with Megatron. That was unexpected. And I’m not making excuses. I am sorry for everything that has happened to you since we met. What has gotten _into_ you three?”

He stayed kneeling, because at this point Ratchet was becoming very aware of how much taller he was than the humans, and it was clear they didn’t need to be physically intimidated any more than they already had been. The two older kids glared stubbornly in opposite directions, and Rafael stared at his feet. Ratchet had suspected he was part of it, the moment he’d seen him run in alone, but this reaction only confirmed it.

His voice softened. “Jack. Miko. Rafael. I am sorry for leaving you and your planet in danger. I didn’t realise Megatron would make it back here first, or that he ever had any intention of returning to Earth.” Jack stubbornly looked away, digging his hands into his pockets, and Ratchet continued. “But I’m here now, and I’ll be doing everything in my power to keep you safe. It’s also clear we need to talk, all four of us, but first I’m prescribing _all_ of you a good night’s recharge.” He glanced up. “Wheeljack. With me. The rest of you, call your families and tell them you’ll be staying somewhere safe. I think it best that we stick close together until Megatron’s business with us is completely finished.”

Miko gave a huff of disbelief as Wheeljack put one hand on the wall of the hangar and pushed to his feet. “You’re going with? Dude, way to sell out! You _hate_ that stuffy old-“

“Hate’s a strong word,” he cut in. “The Doc and I need to talk. Read the datapad or somethin’ in the meantime. I’ll be back in a klick.”

“Ugh – now you’re issuing homework? _Wheeljack!”_

The two Cybertronians exchanged a wary look, neither quite willing to engage with the other just yet, and after a moment Ratchet turned to lead the way out of the hangar and the Wrecker fell into step beside him.

It took a couple minutes of walking quietly in the cool night air for Ratchet to calm himself enough to sound reasonable. Reprimanding a Wrecker properly was almost impossible, and he knew it well. “Wheeljack, you were supposed to report in hours ago. Everyone thinks you’re still roaming around Cybertron on your own.”

“Let ‘em,” he said, stony-faced. “Bulk can handle a little construction on his own, Doc, it’s what he’s built for.”

“That’s notwhat I-“

 _“You_ were the one who ditched the kids for a group get-together. I came as soon as Smokescreen sent everyone the news about Megatron.”

Ratchet shook his head, stamping out the feeling of guilt before it could start. “We should never have left them unattended. But when you’re the only medic on the team, you have to get used to the idea that you can’t be everywhere at once. And as useful as it will no doubt be to have another medic to share the work, Knock Out is far from ready to handle administrative decisions. And in any case _you_ should have been at that meeting.” He glanced up, sensing that Wheeljack was doing his best to disregard what was being said, and offered his last ace. “But… you were quite right to return here when you did. And I’d like to thank you – _unofficially_ – for rushing over. The children needed company.”

Wheeljack turned his head sharply, giving the old medic a searching look. When he found nothing but sincerity, he tilted his head and gave a sly smile. “You goin’ soft, Doc?”

Ratchet blustered some half-baked retort and managed to look suitably offended, but he suspected he was becoming easier to read as time went on. “Nothing of the sort!” he growled, once he was sure he was capable of forming real words. “I’m merely… saying what we’re all thinking, that’s all. In an unofficial capacity. I’m sure Ultra Magnus will still have a few choice words for you when you return to Cybertron,” he warned.

Despite Ratchet’s stern tone of voice, Wheeljack’s smirk did not disappear. “I’ll tell him I have your stamp of approval, shall I?”

 “Do-o-on’t even _think_ about it,” he said quickly. “Besides – that won’t be for a while. Did you pay attention to the rest of the news Smokescreen sent out?”

“I was listening,” he confirmed. “I just didn’t respond. I’ve got everything set to one-way. Needed some alone time.” He went quiet for a minute, sorting through topics and eventually settling on one that was innocuous enough to discuss. “Starscream, huh?”

Ratchet sighed. “I’m not happy about it. I’m going to have to be the one to tell Fowler he’s getting a new intern. …Which reminds me, why didn’t the children call him? I was expecting Fowler to be here, not _you.”_

“Miko says they tried. Apparently the lazy fragger really _is_ on vaycay. They kept getting a recorded message. Sounds to me like he’s out of the loop.” Wheeljack glanced down idly at a couple of humans in uniform who decided to salute them as they passed, and flashed them an amused look. “Y’know, I could get used to this.”

“You’re not going to. As soon as I get hold of Agent Fowler, I’m having the place cleared. I have too many concerns about human safety if we’re going to be using the bridge as a go-between.”

Wheeljack turned his attention back ahead of them. “The way I see it, we give him what he wants and he’ll leave us alone. Easy.”

Ratchet turned to stare at him, incredulous. “You trust _Megatron_ to keep his word?”

“Hey,” he said quickly, “I don’t trust a ‘Con as far as I could throw him. But if what he said on Cybertron was true, then maybe I know what his deal is. He’s got the itch.” Seeing Ratchet give him a puzzled look, Wheeljack offered him a level stare. “He won’t stay here or on Cybertron. Too much history.”

“You think he’s just going to fly around the galaxy and sightsee?”

Wheeljack shrugged impassively.

Ratchet couldn’t have committed to it, but after a moment or two’s consideration, he realised there wasn’t much else _to_ believe. Megatron didn’t havemany other options. At least not if he was honest about quitting the Decepticons (and they had little choice than to resign themselves to believing that, for now, too). Ratchet doubted anyone would allow him to stay in one place for long without a fight. And it had sounded like Megatron was no longer looking for one.

Maybe Wheeljack wasn’t far off the mark. It was something to hope for.

“What about you?” he asked, after a little while.

Wheeljack glanced at him for a second, as if he’d only just considered it, and then quickly turned his optics skyward as if hoping the view of the stars might help him come up with a response.

Eventually, he looked down again, unsatisfied with whatever he found there. “Might stick around for a while.”

Ratchet nodded. “Then you’re on duty, first thing tomorrow.” Holding up a finger to put a stop to the complaints that were about to follow, Ratchet spoke quickly. “Wheeljack, if you were listening to the communication channels, you know how busy things are going to get around this base. If you’re here, I could use your aid.”

Wheeljack looked away again, considering it carefully. Ratchet was no fool, and he liked to think neither was he. They both had their suspicions that all of the Autobots together could not stand against Megatron himself if he decided to go back on his word. Unicron had turned him into a nigh-unstoppable force, and with the Immobiliser broken, he doubted any of the Iacon relics could change that.

Still. One medic dealing with Megatron, a host of eradicons, and potentially Starscream… it was punching a little low.

He gave a begrudging smile. “If you really can’t stand the thought of a Wrecker taking some downtime, Doc, I guess I might as well give you a hand.”

Ratchet nodded firmly. _“First thing tomorrow._ That means no sneaking off. I expect you to be here. Now, as your medic _and_ as one Autobot to another, I suggest you get some rest. I’ll be in Hangar C with the children.”

“Hmm.”

 _“Hmm_ yourself. You’re more than welcome to stay, Wheeljack. I get the feeling that right now Miko would much rather be in the company of a Wrecker than a field medic.”

With that, he turned back, mindful of the night guards still patrolling the airfield. He would _have_ to get in touch with Fowler sooner rather than later.

Wheeljack watched him go, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. When the doc-bot wasn’t launching into a lecture, he wasn’t so bad. Wheeljack jogged to catch up, and after exchanging a glance, the two made their way back to the hangar in an oddly sociable mood despite the cold shoulder they were getting from the two older children.

The next morning would be busy, and they both knew there would be complications because that was how life worked. But they’d both had a lot of experience with that, and it didn’t exactly hurt to have backup.

When the old war medic onlined the next morning to a dozing Rafael on his passenger side, and the experienced Wrecker to Miko sprawling across his back seats, neither of them quite dared to move.


End file.
